it for her!'"

Innocent gave a little cry of pain.

"Oh!--did he say that?"

"Of course he did! All men say that sort of thing! They can't bear
a woman to do more than marry and have children. Simple girl with
the satchel, don't you know that? You mustn't mind it--it's their
way. Of course I rounded on Jocelyn and told him he was a fool,
with a swelled head on the subject of his own sex--he IS a fool in
many ways,--he's a great painter, but he might be much greater if
he'd get up early in the morning and stick to his work. He ought
to have been in the front rank long ago."

"But surely he IS in the front rank?" queried Miss Leigh, mildly--
"He is a wonderful artist!"

"Wonderful--yes!--with a lot of wonderful things in him which
haven't come out!" declared Harrington, "and which never will come
out, I fear! He turns night into day too often. Oh, he's clever!--
I grant you all that--but he hasn't a resolute will or a great
mind, like Watts or Burne-Jones or any of the fellows who served
their art nobly--he's a selfish sort of chap!"

Innocent heard, and longed to utter a protest--she wanted to say-
"No, no!--you wrong him! He is good and noble--he must be!--he is
Amadis de Jocelyn!"

But she repressed her thought and sat very quiet,--then, when