Norma turned in some resentment on her friend. “Oh, Connie, how dare we talk patronisingly of a man like that? He's worth a thousand of the empty-souled, bridge-playing people we live among.” “But that's just why I call him a dear,” said Mrs. Deering, uncomprehendingly. Norma shrugged her shoulders, fell into a silence which she broke by risking: “Do you know whom he is in love with?” “Good gracious, Norma,” cried the little lady, in alarm. “You don't say that Jimmie is in love? Oh, it would spoil him. He can't be!” “There was one picture--of a woman--which he would not let me see,” said Norma. “Well?” Norma paused for some seconds before she replied: “He called it 'a mad artist's dream.' I have been wondering whether it was not better than a sane politician's reality.” “What is a sane politician's reality, dear?” Connie asked, mystified. “I am,” said Norma. Then, woman-like, she turned the conversation to the turpitudes of her dressmaker. Chapter X--TWO IDYLLS JIMMIE was trudging along the undulating highroad that leads from Dieppe to the little village of Berneval, very hot, very dusty, very thirsty, and very contented. He carried a stick and a little black bag. His content proceeded from a variety of causes. In the first place it was a glorious August day, drenched with sunshine and with deep blue ether; and the smiling plain of Normandy rolled before him, a land of ripening orchards and lazy pastures. He had been longing for the simple beauty of sun and sky and green trees, and for the homely sights and sounds of country things, and now he had his fill. Secondly, Aline was having a much needed holiday. She had been growing a little pale and languid, he thought, in London, after a year's confined administering to his selfish wants. She was enjoying herself, too, and the few days she had already spent in the sea air had brought the blood to her cheeks again. Thirdly, he was free for the moment from everyday cares. A dealer had fallen from heaven into his studio and paid money down for the copyright of two of his worst pictures. Fourthly, he had definitely received the commission for the portrait of the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck. Her Serene Highness and her tutelary duchess had paid their visit, expressed themselves delighted with his work (the duchess especially commending the portrait of the hapless Mrs. Marmaduke Hewson), and had driven away in a most satisfactory condition of serenity and graciousness.