"No right nor wrong in the case. You must allow me to say that you take an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow. I have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my friend Vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance--which isn't often." "There is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend," said Rupert, good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. "Allow me to tell you that I sold my last painting this morning. How do you do, Mrs. Heron?" His appearance produced a lull in the storm. Percival ceased to talk and looked slightly--very slightly--disconcerted. Mrs. Heron half rose; Kitty made a raid upon the children's toys, and carried some of them to the other end of the room, whither the tribe followed her, lamenting. Then, Percival laughed aloud. "Where did you come from?" he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice, which was singularly pleasant to the ear. "'Listeners hear no good of themselves.' You've proved the proverb." "Not for the first time when you are the speaker. I have found that out. How are you, Kitty? Good evening, Miss Murray." "How good of you to come to see us, Mr. Vivian!" said Mrs. Heron, in a low, sweetly-modulated voice, as she held out one long, white hand to her visitor. She re-arranged her draperies a little, and lay back gracefully when she had spoken. Rupert had never seen her do anything but lie on sofas in graceful attitudes since he first made her acquaintance. It was her _metier_. Nobody expected anything else from her except vague, theoretic talk, which she called philosophy. She had been Kitty's governess in days gone by. Mr. Heron, an artist of some repute, married her when he had been a widower for twelve months only. Since that time she had become the mother of three handsome, but decidedly noisy, children, and had lapsed by degrees into the life of a useless, fine lady, to whom household cares and the duties of a mother were mere drudgery, and were left to fall as much as possible on the shoulders of other people. Nevertheless, Mrs. Heron's selfishness was of a gentle and even loveable type. She was seldom out of humour, rarely worried or fretful; she was only persistently idle, and determined to consider herself in feeble health.