"Oh, never mind. Your unconsidered trifles will be gratefully appreciated. Look, Bell; don't you like that face?" "That's my duke's daughter," said Everitt with a laugh. And he told them the story of Jack's romance. Miss Aitcheson did not say much. Everitt privately thought her rather uninteresting. She was tall and fair and slender, with light brown hair, a small head, and a very quiet manner, whether due to shyness or reserve or dulness he could not tell; nor, indeed, did he give himself the trouble to investigate very closely. He directed his attention to his cousin, Mrs Marchmont; and she was a sufficiently lively little person to have no objection to its monopoly. Meanwhile Miss Aitcheson wandered about, looking as she liked--at faded hangings, and ancient Indian rugs of fabulously fine needlework, and pictures in frames and out of them, and the parrot in his cage, and odd bits of a painter's property. In this fashion she enjoyed the studio a hundred times more than if she had been called upon at every moment to remark on its contents; and certainly the painter and Mrs Marchmont were doing very well without her. But presently their conversation touched on some subject which evidently interested her: for she drew nearer to hear it discussed, although still examining a Roman sketch which she held in her hands. "Don't look so miserable, Charlie, but promise that you'll do it for her. In fact, I _have_ promised. Why, of course you know all the models in London." "I don't. I hate London models." "Well," said Mrs Marchmont with swift inconsequence, "I don't suppose you expect a young girl to prowl about those places where they live?" Everitt shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to me?" "Charlie," repeated his cousin, with a kind of shocked disappointment in her voice, "if you will not take such an absurd fraction of trouble when I ask you--" "My dear Mary," he said, turning quickly, "if you ask me on your own account--" "Of course I do. I ask it as a very personal favour. If you knew Kitty Lascelles, it would be unnecessary to put it on that ground," returned Mrs Marchmont, still keeping up a little air of dignity. "I apologise a hundred times. What is it that Miss Lascelles wants?" "A model--an Italian model." "Man or woman?" "Man." "_Contadino_, broad hat, long cloak--the stock production, I suppose?" "I suppose so," she said, looking at him doubtfully. "All young ladies like that style of thing." "Don't be overbearing. Miss Lascelles is an excellent artist. Her father is one of the staff at the Military Hospital, and has fitted up a studio for her, where she works with--a friend," she added, with an imperceptible glance at Miss Aitcheson. "It is the most delightful old-world place you can imagine. Shall I drive you there some day?" "Thank you; you are very good," he said hastily, "but you must remember that I am not an idle man. Besides, it is quite unnecessary; I am doing this for you."