“Beautifully,” replied Norma. “Friary, not Priory,” she corrected, watching him make the note. She felt the uncommon satisfaction of having performed a virtuous act; one almost of penance for her cruelty to him on Sunday week, the memory of which had teased a not over-sensitive conscience. The scrag end of boiled mutton and the rind of cheese had also affected her, stirred her pity for the poor optimist, although in a revulsion of feeling she had shivered at his lot. She had closed her eyes for a second, and some impish wizardry of the brain had conjured up a picture of herself sitting down to such a meal, with Jimmie at the other side of the table. It was horrible. She had turned to fill her soul with the solid magnificence about her. The pity for Jimmie lingered, however, as a soothing sensation, and she welcomed the opportunity of playing Lady Bountiful. She glanced with some malice from the annotated cuff to her mother's face, expecting to see the glitter of disapproval in her eyes. To her astonishment, Mrs. Hardacre wore an expression of pleased abstraction. Charlie Sandys pocketed his gold pencil and retired. He was a young man with the weight of many affairs on his shoulders. “That's a capital idea of yours, Norma,” said Mrs. Hardacre. “I'm glad you think so,” replied Norma, wonderingly. “I do. It was most happy. We'll do all we can to help Morland's friend. A most interesting man. And if the princess gives him the commission, we can ask him down to Heddon to stay with us while he is painting the picture.” Norma was puzzled. Hitherto her mother had turned up the nose of distaste against Mr. Padgate and all his works. Whence this sudden change? Not from sweet charitableness, that was certain. Hardly from desire to please Morland. Various solutions ran in her head. Did an overweening ambition prompt her mother to start forth a rival to the duchess, as a snapper up of unconsidered painters? Scarcely possible. Defiance of the duchess? That way madness could only lie; and she was renowned for the subtle caution of her social enterprises. The little problem of motive interested her keenly. At last the light flashed upon her, and she looked at Mrs. Hardacre almost with admiration. “What a wonderful brain you have, mother!” she cried, half mockingly, half in earnest. “Fancy your having schemed out all that in three minutes.” Enjoyment of this display of worldcraft was still in her eyes when she came across Morland a little later; but she only told him of her recommendation of Jimmie to paint the princess's portrait. He professed delight. How had she come to think of it? “I think I must have caught the disease of altruism from Mr. Padgate,” she said. Then following up an idle train of thought: “I suppose you often put work--portraits and things--in his way?” “I can't say that I do.” “Why not? You know hundreds of wealthy people.”