As the two drew near Rix waved her sunshade at him and nodded. He advanced, holding to his cigarette. When she extended her hand--a gloved hand, for she was in a fashionable, white, walking costume--her eyes did not lift and her color wavered and her short, sensitive, upper lip trembled slightly. “Mr. Wade, I want you and father to know each other,” said she. As her voice came the thrill that shot through him dropped his cigarette from between the fingers of his left hand. He and Richmond gave each other a penetrating, seeing glance, followed by a smile of immediate appreciation. Richmond gave and took back his hand quickly--the hand shake of the man who is impatient of meaningless formalities. “I’ve come to look at the picture,” said he, in his voice the note of one who neither wastes his own time nor suffers others to waste it. Roger froze instantly. “I’m sorry you’ve had your journey for nothing,” said he. Richmond looked at him aggressively. Roger’s tone of the large, free spirit that does as it wills was to Richmond, the autocrat, like a challenging trumpet. “It’s here--isn’t it?” said he. “But it’s not finished,” replied the big artist, gentle as the voice of a great river flowing inevitably on its way. “No matter,” said Richmond graciously. “We’ll take a look at it, anyhow.” “Oh, no, we shan’t,” said Beatrice, laughing. “He has a rule against it, father. And he’s like iron where his rules are concerned. But you’ll give us some chocolate, won’t you, Mr. Wade?” “Delighted,” said Roger, with a gesture inviting them to precede him into the studio. Richmond looked round him scrutinizingly. “Nothing to distract your mind from your work, I see. That’s the way my office is fitted up. I’m always suspicious of chaps surrounded by elegant fittings.” And he gave Roger an approving look that was flattering, if a trifle suggestive of superiority. “It’s not wise to judge a man by any exteriors,” said Roger. “What he does--that is the only safe standard.” Richmond reflected, nodded. “Yes,” said he. “Yes. Is that the picture?” He pointed one brown, bony hand at the sketch on the easel. “No,” said Roger curtly, and he flung a drape over the sketch. Turning to Beatrice with rather formal friendliness, he inquired, “How is your mother?” “Well--always well,” said Beatrice. “She sent you her best. But she’s cross with you for not coming to call.” Richmond grinned sardonically. “From what I’ve heard of Wade,” said he, “he’s not the kind you find nestled among the petticoats with a little cup in his hand.” He smiled upon Roger. “In America, at least, you never see men who amount to anything at these social goings-on. In five years I’ve been to only one party in my own house, and to none in anybody else’s house.” “May I help with the chocolate--Mr. Wade?” asked Beatrice. “No. You two will sit quietly. I don’t mind being watched.”