Maryon Rooke was a man the merit of whose work was just beginning to be
noticed in the art world. For years he had laboured unacknowledged and
with increasing bitterness--for he knew his own worth. But now, though,
still only in his early thirties, his reputation, particularly as a
painter of women's portraits, had begun to be noised abroad. His feet
were on the lower rungs of the ladder, and it was generally prophesied
that he would ultimately reach the top. His gifts were undeniable, and
there was a certain ruthlessness in the line of the lips above the small
Van Dyck beard he wore which suggested that he would permit little to
stand in the way of his attaining his goal--be it what it might.

"You'd make a delightful picture, Sun-kissed," he said, narrowing his
eyes and using one of his most frequent names for her. "With your blue
violet eyes and that rose-petal skin of yours."

Nan smiled involuntarily.

"Don't be so flowery, Maryon. Really, you and Penelope are very good
antidotes to each other! She's just been giving me a lecture on the
error of my ways. She doesn't waste any breath over my appearance, bless
her!"

"What's the crime?"

"Lack of application, waste of opportunities, and general idleness."

"It's all true." Rooke leaned forward, his eyes lit by momentary
enthusiasm. They were curious eyes--hazel brown, with a misleading
softness in them that appealed to every woman he met. "It's all true,"