“The man is perfectly right. He is on the lookout for a woman who can keep up or perhaps add to his social prestige, who can conduct the affairs of a large establishment when he enters political life, who can possibly give him a son to inherit his estate, and who can wear his family diamonds with distinction--and it does require a woman of presence to do justice to family diamonds, you know. He looks round society and sees a girl that may suit him. Naturally he takes his time and sizes her up. I have learned patience and so I let him size to his heart's content. On the other hand, what he can give me falls above the lower limit of my requirements, and personally I don't dislike him.” “Mercy on us!” cried Constance Deering, “the man is head over ears in love with you!” “Then I like him all the better for dissembling it so effectually,” said Norma, “and I hope he'll go on dissembling to the end of the chapter. I hate sentiment.” They were walking slowly down Bond Street, and happened to pause before a picture-dealer's window, where a print of a couple of lovers bidding farewell caught Mrs. Deering's attention. “I call that pretty,” she said. “Do you hate love too?” Norma twirled her parasol and moved away, waiting for the other. “Love, my dear Connie, is an appetite of the lower middle classes.” “My dear Norma!” the other exclaimed, “I do wish Jimmie Padgate could hear you!” Norma started at the name. “What has he got to do with the matter?” “That's one of his pictures.” “Oh, is it?” said Norma, indifferently. But feminine curiosity compelled a swift parting glance at the print. “I imagine our guileless friend has a lot to learn,” she added. “A few truths about the ways of this wicked world would do him good.” “I promised to go and look round his studio to-morrow morning; will you come and give him his first lesson?” asked Mrs. Deering, mischievously. “Certainly not,” replied Norma. But the destiny she had previously remarked upon seemed to be fulfilling itself. A day or two afterwards his familiar figure burst upon her at a Private View in a small picture-gallery. His eyes brightened as she withdrew from her mother, who was accompanying her, and extended her hand. “Dear me, who would have thought of seeing you here? Do you care for pictures? Why have n't you told me? I am so glad.” “Love of Art did n't bring me here, I assure you,” replied Norma. “Then what did?”