Christina had remained but for a moment in the chair which Rowland had
placed for her, had given but a cursory glance at the statues, and
then, leaving her place, had begun to wander round the room--looking at
herself in the mirror, touching the ornaments and curiosities, glancing
at the books and prints. Rowland's sitting-room was encumbered with
bric-a-brac, and she found plenty of occupation. Rowland presently
joined her, and pointed out some of the objects he most valued.

"It 's an odd jumble," she said frankly. "Some things are very
pretty--some are very ugly. But I like ugly things, when they have a
certain look. Prettiness is terribly vulgar nowadays, and it is not
every one that knows just the sort of ugliness that has chic. But chic
is getting dreadfully common too. There 's a hint of it even in Madame
Baldi's bonnets. I like looking at people's things," she added in a
moment, turning to Rowland and resting her eyes on him. "It helps you to
find out their characters."

"Am I to suppose," asked Rowland, smiling, "that you have arrived at any
conclusions as to mine?"

"I am rather muddled; you have too many things; one seems to contradict
another. You are very artistic and yet you are very prosaic; you have
what is called a 'catholic' taste and yet you are full of obstinate
little prejudices and habits of thought, which, if I knew you, I should
find very tiresome. I don't think I like you."

"You make a great mistake," laughed Rowland; "I assure you I am very
amiable."

"Yes, I am probably wrong, and if I knew you, I should find out I was