pops into one's head: I wonder if I couldn't make him like me best."

"And do you always find you can?"

"Oh, there's no rule about it; only as a newcomer one has the advantage
of novelty, and that's something."

"And what happened about this artist?"

Christine smiled reminiscently: "I found he wasn't really in love with
Nancy at all: he just wanted to paint her portrait."

"I should think he would have wanted to paint yours."

"He did and gave it to me as a present, and then he behaved very badly."
She sighed.

"What did he do?"

"Well," she hesitated. "He did not really want to give me the picture. He
thought he wanted to keep it himself. It was much the best thing he ever
did. I had to persuade him a good deal, and in persuading him, I may have
given him the impression that I cared about him more than I really did.
Anyhow, after I actually had the portrait hanging in my sitting-room, I
told him I thought it was better for us not to meet any more. Some men
would have been flattered to think I took them so seriously. But he was
furious, and one day when I was out he sent for the portrait and cut it
all to pieces. Wasn't that horrible? My pretty portrait!"

"Horrible!" said Riatt. "It seems to me the one spark of spirit the poor