She was softly singing to herself, and looked up with a start.

“I am too much engaged to come again. Mr Everitt says, will the signorina kindly finish what is necessary, and he will send another model in the same costume.”

She did not immediately answer; when she did it was to ask—

“Is not the costume yours?”

“Signorina, yes.”

“I did not know you lent your clothes to one another.”

Everitt muttered something about not wanting that particular costume this week, and she went on to inquire in what character he was sitting for Mr Everitt, to which he had to reply that he did not know. She followed this up by asking a good many questions about himself, to which he responded in a deprecatory manner, though he was conscious of dangerously dropping the stupid vacancy behind which he had at first entrenched himself. Everitt, indeed, who had gone through a succession of London seasons without a heartache, had fallen a helpless victim in a few hours. There was an extraordinary fascination for him in this girl and her surroundings; he watched her furtively, called himself a fool for being there, and would not have been anywhere else for the world.

Once she flung up the window and leaned out, resting on her finger-tips, to call to the children, who this time had Sandy with them in the garden. She was greeted by a shout.

“Come out, Kitty! Leave that stupid old painting. It’s lovely out-of-doors.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Kitty, I want something out of your garden.”

“What?”

“That pink flower.”

“Oh, you robber! Well, you may have it, but move it very carefully, and give it plenty of water. Where’s mother?”

“Gone to the infirmary to see old Dickson. Kitty!” in a pleading voice.

“No; I can’t spare any more. My poor garden will be bare.”

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