hundred times. What is it that Miss Lascelles wants?”

“A model—an Italian model.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Contadino, broad hat, long cloak—the stock production, I suppose?”

“I suppose so,” she said, looking at him doubtfully.

“All young ladies like that style of thing.”

“Don’t be overbearing. Miss Lascelles is an excellent artist. Her father is one of the staff at the Military Hospital, and has fitted up a studio for her, where she works with—a friend,” she added, with an imperceptible glance at Miss Aitcheson. “It is the most delightful old-world place you can imagine. Shall I drive you there some day?”

“Thank you; you are very good,” he said hastily, “but you must remember that I am not an idle man. Besides, it is quite unnecessary; I am doing this for you.”

“And you can find just what she wants? I knew you would,” said his cousin triumphantly. Everitt reflected.

“I can put my hand at once on the best man in London for that sort of thing,” he said slowly. “When does she want him—on Monday, I suppose?”

“Yes. Why, however, do you suppose it?”

“Because ladies are impatient in art as in everything else, and while I should spend a fortnight in selecting a good model, you would expect him to grow out of the ground at your feet.”

“If I had told you that I wanted him.”

“I make my bow,” Everitt returned. “Well, as it happens, the best man in London for her purpose is coming here on Monday morning.”

“That,” said Mrs Marchmont, “is what I should have expected.”

“He’s a first-rate model, and an awful ruffian.”

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