moment she was bent forward again in vigorous protest, drumming
impatiently on the table with her fingers as he laughingly altered
her drawing. They were the best of friends and wrangled continually.
To Gillian it was all so fresh, so novel. Then her attention
veered. Throughout dinner Craven had been silent. When once
started on a discussion his aunt and Peters tore the controversy
amicably to tatters in complete absorption. He had not joined in
the argument. As always Gillian was too shy to address him of her
own accord, but she was acutely conscious of his nearness. She
deprecated her own attitude, yet silence was better than the banal
platitudes which were all she had to offer. Her range was so
restricted, his--who had travelled the world over--must be so
great. With the exception of one subject her knowledge was
negligible. But he too was an artist--hopeless to attempt that
topic, she concluded with swift contempt for her own limitations;
to offer the opinions of a convent-bred amateur to one who had
studied in famous Paris ateliers and was acquainted with the art
of many countries would be an impertinence. But yet she knew that
sometime she must break through the wall that her own diffidence
had built up; in the intimacy of country house life the
continuance of such an attitude would be both impossible and
ridiculous. Contritely she acknowledged that the tension between
them was largely her own fault, a disability due to training. But
she could not go through life sheltering behind that wholly
inadequate plea. If there was anything in her at all she must rise
above the conventions in which she had been reared; she had done
with the narrowness of the past, now she must think broadly,
expansively, in all things--even in the trivial matter of social
intercourse. A saving sense of humour sent a laugh bubbling into
her throat which nearly escaped. It was such a little thing, but