"How many Miss Penfolds? Well, there are two, and I danced with them
both. But"--the young man shook his head slowly--"I haven't got any use
for the elder one."

"Plain?"

"Not at all--rather pretty. But she talks philosophy and stuff. Not my
sort."

"And the younger one doesn't talk philosophy?"

"Not she. She's a deal too clever. But she paints--like a bird. I've seen
some of her things."

"Oh!--so _you_'ve been to call?"

Lady Tatham lifted her beautiful eyes upon her son. Harry Tatham fidgeted
with his cup and spoon.

"No. I was shy, because you hadn't been. But--"

"Harry," interrupted his mother, her look all vivacity, "did she paint
those two water-colours in your sitting-room?"

The boyish, bluntly cut face beside her broke into a charming laugh.

"I bought 'em out of the Edinburgh exhibition. Wasn't it 'cute of me? She
told me she had sent them there. So I just wrote to the secretary and
bought them."