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 going to be there! One would think there was no one in the world but Dicky Askew."

"One would, to hear you talk," said Cynthia.

When she was alone again, she went to the writing-table and tried to write a letter. She made two rough copies and tore them up, began a third and burst into tears in the middle. The anticipa tion of the artistic atmosphere for the rest of her life did not seem to be exhilarating.

"Mr. Ruthven," announced the man-servant.

"Oh, how do you do?" said Cynthia with desperate com posure.

"What's the matter?" he asked bluntly, just as Margaret had done, "and what are all those flowers on the floor for? It looks like a funeral."

"It isn't—they're not—oh don't," said Cynthia with an hysterical sob.

Willis had hold of her hand still and drew her on to the sofa beside him.

"Something seems to have disturbed you," he said, and cleared his throat sympathetically; "what is it, eh?"

"I can't very well tell you," she replied with an effort to be calm.

"Then don't," said Willis, in the tone he might have used in soothing a child; "we'll talk about something else instead. I was down at Johnson's just now——"

"Johnson's? Whatever did you go to my agent's for?" she asked in a surprised tone.

"To ask him if your affairs were in a satisfactory condition," he replied frankly.

"Why did you want to know!"

"For reasons I will tell you presently." "And