in all his ways, very much a Bohemian, knowing little of his native
country, England, for he had lived all his youth and working life in
France--and she, in everything, save an instinctive love of beauty, which,
oddly yet naturally enough, only betrayed itself in her dress, the
exact opposite!

A commission from an English country gentleman who had fancied a portrait
shown by Dampier in the Salon, had brought the artist, rather reluctantly,
across the Channel, and an accident--sometimes it made them both shiver to
realise how slight an accident--had led to their first and
decisive meeting.

Nancy Tremain had been brought over to tea, one cold, snowy afternoon, at
the house where Dampier was painting. She had been dressed all in grey, and
the graceful velvet gown and furry cap-like toque had made her look, in his
eyes, like an exquisite Eighteenth Century pastel.

One glance--so Dampier had often since assured her and she never grew tired
of hearing it--had been enough. They had scarcely spoken the one to the
other, but he had found out her name, and, writing, cajoled her into seeing
him again. Very soon he had captured her in the good old way, as women--or
so men like to think--prefer to be wooed, by right of conquest.

There had been no one to say them nay, no one to comment unkindly over so
strange and sudden a betrothal. On the contrary, Nancy's considerable
circle of acquaintances had smilingly approved.

All the world loves a masterful lover, and Nancy Tremain was far too
pretty, far too singular and charming, to become engaged in the course of
nature to some commonplace young man. This big, ugly, clever, amusing