“It is a pity you and I have not got one,” said Clytie, flashing a malicious glance at him. “Perhaps we have. What do you mostly do?” “Paint--for my living.” “An artist! What is your line?” “Anything human--they call it _genre_--street life--the very poor.” “The poor? Then we have a common hobby after all!” “Perhaps,” replied Clytie. “But I am afraid we ride it in opposite directions.” “Do you know much of their lives--go among them?” “Not much; I see them only externally, from an artist's point of view. I should like to see deeper.” A light burned for a moment in the young clergyman's gray eyes. “Would you care for work among them?” “As a student, perhaps; as a reformer, no!” “One generally leads to the other.” “In that case I'll not run the risk,” she replied laughing. An hour later the drawing-room was filled with the evening guests, mostly men. Women archaeologists are scarce. The sentiment with which they inwrap relics of the past harms the pure scientific spirit of inquiry. Thus Mr. Farquharson to Clytie, briefly explanative. She laughed, reminded him how lately in a sentimental mood he had accused women of lack of imagination; she reproached him for inconsistency. “Inconsistency is a principle of the art of living,” he replied epigrammatically, moving away. The men stood in groups about the room chatting on personalities, examining the display of coin-cases arranged here and there upon the tables, each under the soothing light of a shaded lamp. The professor stood by himself on the hearthrug, hemming irritably, anxious to read his paper. The talk was subdued, attitudes formal, a contrast to the ordinary easy abandonment of that drawing-room. The men were of a different type, mostly elderly, sedate. Mrs. Farquharson rested for a moment from her exertions as hostess by Clytie's side. “Now for a minute's peace. I wish the men would smoke, they all look so woebegone; but George says they mustn't. Now, then, my dear, I haven't seen you for ages, except for those five minutes before dinner; what have you been doing lately?” “Nothing much--working. Oh! yes, I have, though. I have found a new chum.” “What is she like?” “It isn't a she, it's a he.” “Where does he come from?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, arching her eyebrows. “From the skies, apparently: in the first case to put out a fire in my room--he lives over me in the attics----” “Clytie! You must be careful. Who is he? What's his name?” “Caroline,” said her husband's deep voice behind her chair, “I don't think you know Mr. Kent.” Clytie started round violently at the shock of the coincidence. Kent was standing by her side, looking odd, changed, a bit Philistine in his evening dress. He wore a glove over his burned hand.