Then Doris saw that she had a charming tired face, beautiful eyes on which she had just placed spectacles, and soft brown hair framing her thin cheeks.
"A novelty since you were here," whispered Bentley in Doris's ear.
"She's an accountant--capital girl! Since these Liberal budgets came along, I can't keep my own accounts, or send in my own income-tax returns--dash them! So she does the whole business for me--pays everything--sees to everything--comes once a week.

We shall all be run by the women soon!" * * * * * The studio had grown very quiet.

Through some glass doors open to the garden came in little wandering winds which played with some loose papers on the floor, and blew Doris's hair about her eyes as she stooped over her easel, absorbed in her drawing.

Apparently absorbed: her subliminal mind, at least, was far away, wandering on a craggy Scotch moor.

A lady on a Scotch pony--she understood that Lady Dunstable often rode with the shooters--and a tall man walking beside her, carrying, not a gun, but a walking stick:--that was the vision in the crystal.