more bulgy. It was sullen. He scowled. And, art having its
limitations, particularly amateur art, the portrait gave no hint
of his very repellent manner. He was an intensely sophisticated
child. He had the air of one who has seen all life has to offer,
and is now permanently bored. His speech and bearing were those of
a young man, and a distinctly unlovable young man.

Even Mrs Ford was momentarily chilled. She laughed shakily.

'How very matter-of-fact you are, darling!' she said.

Cynthia was regarding the heir to the Ford millions with her usual
steady, half-contemptuous gaze.

'He has been that all day,' she said. 'You have no notion what a
help it was to me.'

Mrs Ford turned to her effusively.

'Oh, Cynthia, dear, I haven't thanked you.'

'No,' interpolated the girl dryly.

'You're a wonder, darling. You really are. I've been repeating
that ever since I got your telegram from Eastnor.' She broke off.
'Ogden, come near me, my little son.'

He lurched towards her sullenly.

'Don't muss a fellow now,' he stipulated, before allowing himself