“Aye, she looks well in her cap I am always telling her so,” Clarence assured Dammler.

“Andhere I have been leading her astray and advising her to remove it,” Dammler replied.

“Yes, I frequently tell her she looks too old in her cap,” Clarence said, with no awareness of his own contradiction.

“How does the painting go on, Mr. Elmtree?” Dammler asked, his motive not so innocent as his polite face would suggest.

“I have invented a new way of painting diamonds,” he answered wisely. “It is not done as Rubens and the old fellows thought at all-making it transparent like glass, with just a little dab of white or blue. And it isn’t done like a garnet or emerald either. It is a prism-that’s how it is done. All colours of the rainbow. I discovered it while holding my niece’s diamond necklace to the light. You heard about Seville offering for her?” Dammler nodded. “A great box of diamonds he sent her, big as eggs, but she didn’t care for him, being a foreigner, you know. There are queer knots in all foreigners, say what you will. He was pretty cut up, poor fellow, but he’ll get over it.”

“You were actually speaking to him about it yourself?” Dammler asked. This was proof positive that Hettie was wrong. He was relieved to hear it.

“We talked it over a dozen times,” Clarence told him misleadingly, with no intention of lying, but from a constitutional inability to distinguish fact from what he wanted to think. “He was always hinting around that he wanted to marry her.”

“The acquaintance surely was not a long one?” Dammler asked. Damme, Prue hadn’t known the fellow more than a couple of weeks.

“No, not long, but he was here all the time. Quite lived in her pocket.”

Some recollection of having seen Prue most days of the first week of her acquaintance with Seville caused Dammler to view Clarence’s words with suspicion, but the full extent of the inaccuracy of Elmtree’s story did not occur to him. He thought Seville must have spoken to Clarence once about the offer.

“That must be Dr. Ashington at the door now,” Prudence said with infinite relief.

He came in and was introduced, and when Dammler took his leave, Clarence and Mrs. Mallow left the room with him. Ashington was an intellectual-looking gentleman, almost an aesthete. Tall and cadaverously thin, with hollow cheeks, he had eyes that were bright and penetrating. His hair was brown, just turning grey. Prudence placed his age at forty or so. When they were alone, he said, “I did not expect to be meeting a young lady. Your books led me to expect a woman of more advanced years-well, let us say mature. I do not mean to imply they are old hat.”

“I am twenty-four,” Prudence said.

“You have accomplished a great deal for your age. Three books to your credit, and another in the works Lord Dammler tells me.”

“Yes, I am at work on another.”

“Good, good. Regular output, that is what it takes to establish a reputation. Oh, I don’t mean churning them out like sausages as Scott does, but a book a year or so to keep yourself in tune, to flex your muscles and learn your craft. I see an improvement, a logical growth in your books.”

“Thank you,” Prudence said, wondering what he meant. “I was surprised to hear you mean to write an article about my books. I did not look for such recognition from such a famous magazine.”

This artless praise went down well. “I confess I was not acquainted with your work till Dammler called it to my attention. There are so many novel writers you know, and in general one does not look to female writers for any purpose more serious than amusement.”

AsPrudence’s sole interest had been to amuse, she was lost for a reply. She said “Thank you,” again, and as she said it, she pondered his other comment. Dammler had called her to his attention. She owed this interview to him.

They talked for some time about her work. She was questioned closely as to her theme, when she had never thought an inch beyond plot and characters, and decided between them that her theme was no less than the whole fabric of upper-class English society, and what held it together. Next she was interrogated as to her views on Miss Wollstonecraft and feminism.

“I am scarcely familiar with her works at all,” she confessed. “I have glanced at her Vindication of the Rights of Women, but do not consider myself a feminist.”

“You do not advocate higher education for women then?”

“Good gracious, no! I only attended a seminary for five years myself. If the occasional few women want it, and it does not interfere with their lives-their duties-but in general, you know, I cannot think Latin and Greek of much interest to women.” She also thought it quite a waste of time for men to spend years learning a couple of dead languages, but wisely kept it to herself. The Doctor had a nasty habit of throwing a Latin phrase at her, and there was no point in antagonizing him.

He smiled benignly at her answers. “I notice you do not concern yourself with the broader problems of modem society-war, politics, economics, the general revolutionary trend of Western society.”

“My canvas is small. I have often heard it said that a writer should stick to what she knows, and my life has been sheltered. But I write for women-women are interested in the home, society in the limited sense of friends and neighbours, and in the case of young ladies, finding a husband. That is my subject. I leave the other fields to men.”

She spoke the simple truth. When he talked of “revolutionary trends” and “liberal minds” she scarcely knew what he meant. She just wrote about people-their minds and hearts as Shakespeare and other writers before her had done. Her answers pleased him. It allowed him to admire her achievement without fearing he had a feminist and an intellectual on his hands. He disliked feminists intensely. He was dyed deep in conventionality, felt threatened by women who challenged men's preserves, and was all for keeping them in the home. As a literary man, he liked a woman who read a little, and it was admissible in his scheme of things for a few women to write stories for the others to read. If they wrote it well, so much the better. He was willing to admit Miss Mallow wrote in a lively style. She had no pretensions, and he liked her. He liked that she lived with her family as a decent Christian, that she wore a cap, was modest and deferential to himself. He also liked her blue eyes and her trim figure, but that was quite a different matter. He stayed two hours, took tea with her, and left with a high opinion of Miss Mallow.

So high indeed that he returned the next afternoon with a few more questions, and an invitation to her to take tea with himself and his mama on Sunday. She accepted gladly, and never once suspected that beneath Ashington’s stiff facade a heart not quite old was beating a little faster.

On Saturday morning Dammler dropped in to see how the interview had gone, and at last to bring Shilla, whom he had forgotten when he came to introduce Ashington.

“How did it go with the Doctor?” he asked.

“Quite well, I think,” she answered.

Clarence and her mother were also present on this occasion.

“Ho, she is always putting herself down,” Clarence took it up. “He stayed forever. We had to add hot water to the tea twice, and finally drive him from the house.”

“Indeed!” Dammler answered, looking at her quizzingly.

“And was back the next day to go at it again,” Clarence added. “He is taking her to meet his mother tomorrow. He will be popping the question too before a week is out.” This good-natured hint was a warning to Dammler of the sort of competition he had.

“Another suitor, Miss Mallow?” Dammler asked with a twinkle.

“No! That is, he did drop by the next day to clear up a few points…"

“And about the tea?”

“Well, his mama is an invalid, you know, and cannot get about much.”

“No, I didn’t know. Strange he did not ask me to take tea with her.”

“He is sweet on Prue; there is no doubt of that. None in the world,” Clarence declared in a conclusive manner.

“Lord Dammler is not interested in all that, Clarence,” Wilma cautioned her brother.

“Indeed, I am interested,” Dammler countered playfully. “I came to see how the meeting went on, and am delighted it went so well. He can be a crusty old devil if he’s rubbed the wrong way.”

“Prudence is well named. She rubbed him the right way,” Elmtree asserted.

Dammler’s eyes just met Prudence’s at this remark, with a shared flicker of amusement. “I also came to see if you would take a look at this first act of my play,” he said, and arose to give it to Prudence.

“Why don’t you go into the study?” Clarence suggested. Prudence was surprised at her great fortune in being offered a release, until she realized her uncle meant to accompany them and show off his shelves and paintings.

“We are getting this little cubbyhole fixed up for my niece,” he said. “A private spot for her to work in. There are shelves there for her books, and a desk.”

“Very nice. Handy,” Dammler said, then as more praise seemed to be expected he added, “It’s good to have a desk to write at.”

“And a few fellow writers to keep her company,” Clarence pointed out. “My work.”

“I recognized the style. I have praised those portraits to your niece on a former occasion. Very nice."

“There is a lamp there you see, and a brace of candles, too, in case she wants to work nights.”

“Yes, she is ready for anything, rain or shine.” He looked over his head to see the lucky girl also had a roof over her head to pamper her. “You have no excuse to be slacking off, Miss Mallow, with such a room as this.”