She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. But what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour. Miss Stanley hesitated, and took first one and then another of the constituents of this costume off its peg and surveyed it. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. F. B. S.
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