Helen stretched out her hand. Her daughter took it indifferently, pressed it lightly and let it fall.

"It's just to ask may I go out?--with Mason, of course--to do some shopping?"

"Wouldn't you rather wait for me? I shall be ready about twelve."

"Well ... you see, Madre,"--a faint flush stole into the clear skin as she spoke. "Christmas is getting very near and I've no presents at all, as yet. And----" a sudden excuse seemed to strike her--"I rather thought ... I'd get yours."

"Oh, very well." Helen laughed, "I mustn't trespa.s.s on any 'secret.'"

Cydonia averted her brown eyes, conscious of a twinge of conscience.

"Thank you, Madre, dear." She stooped and kissed her mother gratefully, hesitated for a moment, and breathed an indistinct "Good-bye."

But once outside the front door her spirits began to rise. She looked unusually animated, beautiful in her costly furs.

The maid shuffled along beside her, a subdued black form of indeterminate shape, rather like an unwilling retriever, dragged by an invisible leash.

They crossed Berkeley Square and swerved up to the right into Bond Street. Here Cydonia's step quickened as she glanced eagerly about her. She paused once or twice before a shop, gazing abstractedly into the window, and bought a bunch of Parma violets, which she pinned on to her white fox.

Then, with the gold head proudly carried, shining in the wintry sun like a halo under her black hat, she moved on, very sedate, avoiding all admiring glances.

"Hullo! Here's a stroke of luck."

McTaggart barred her further progress.

"What are you doing out so early?" His blue eyes were mischievous.

"How do you do?" she said demurely. "I'm shopping." Conversation failed her.

"Can I come, too?" McTaggart asked. He turned without waiting for permission.

The maid, with dog-like fidelity, fell to heel behind the pair, and, lowering his voice, he added:

"I began to think I must have missed you."

"Am I late?" said Cydonia. "I shall really have to buy something. I told Mother it was Christmas presents... And I shouldn't like to tell a lie."

"We'll buy the whole street," said McTaggart, ministering to the wounded conscience. "Let's cross over and look at Asprey's--their window's bursting with 'suitable gifts.'"

They dodged across between the taxis, heedless of the nervous maid.

"Can't we lose her?" he suggested. "I'm not used to a royal escort."

Glancing round him, he observed a Gallery close at hand where an Exhibition was advertised, and jumped at the way of escape.

"Come in and see the pictures." He raised his voice as he spoke.

"You really ought to--they're fine!--done by that man..." he spelled out the name.

Cydonia giggled, recovered herself and turned to the reluctant maid.

"Mason--we're going in here. Do you think, meanwhile, that you'd have time to run up to Marshall's and match that satin for my frock?"

"Yes, miss." The girl's face brightened. She much preferred to shop alone and dawdle down the long counters. "I'd be back within half-an-hour."

"Excellent," said McTaggart. As Cydonia pa.s.sed through the doors he slipped his hand into his pocket and noiselessly tipped the maid.

"Take your time," he said kindly. The pale, subdued c.o.c.kney thanked him.

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"I'll bet you do!" thought the man.

They pa.s.sed down a narrow pa.s.sage and into the long empty room with its crude top-light, so trying to many a fair-haired woman.

But Cydonia stood the test triumphantly, her skin sh.e.l.l-like above her furs.

A single sad-faced man was standing in possession of the scene, gazing with ardent eyes at a violent blue seascape.

"I'll guarantee that's the artist." McTaggart whispered in her ear.

"Don't let's break into his dreams---- That sofa looks comfortable."

They sat down on the green plush, side by side, and Cydonia played with the violets at her breast, conscious of McTaggart's eyes.

"Don't you want to see the pictures?" She made an effort at small talk. "I thought--you said--they were rather fine."

"Never heard of them in my life! Besides, I'm looking at a picture."

Cydonia vainly pretended to miss the meaning of his speech. She pointed a slender finger at the portrait of a Spanish girl, facing the pair with a bold smile, a red rose behind her ear.

"I like the colour of her hair--that glossy black which looks blue..."

"So do I." McTaggart smiled, "but it's not black--it's ... spun sunshine! And the only blue that I can see is a tiny vein near the temple."

"I wonder," said Cydonia desperately, "how much we've made by those Tableaux?"

"Fifteen pounds, four and tuppence."

"_Really_? ... Not more than that?" She turned a bewildered face toward him.

"Ah ... that's better," said McTaggart. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I haven't the faintest idea of the sum. But I was getting tired of your profile." He saw her frown and stopped short.

"All right! I'll be good. But it's such fun, now, isn't it? When I think of the patient Mason matching yards of satin up at Marshall's."

Cydonia laughed. The soft note echoed through the empty room, for the artist had quietly slipped away into a further one beyond.

One quick glance he had given them, and his sensitive mind had received the impression. The girl, with her apple-blossom face, Spring incarnate, wooed by Summer.

"It isn't often I have the chance of your company without Mamma. Don't you ever go to dances?" He watched her lips move as she answered.