She nodded with equal care. Of course, she could do that, or anything to please him. There was a delicious joy in being included in his plans, even though he seldom explained them to her. She gloried in being useful to him—important. But if only she knew his purpose in regard to Alston. She had received no definite hint, though her common sense told her that there was need for flattery, and that he was not averse to impressing the planter with the lavishness of their establishment. It was a rôle she had played before, and she slipped into it expertly now that her momentary rebellion had passed.

'Shall we, Mr. Alston?' Her low voice was now enriched with a tone of intimate persuasion very like her father's. She smiled, glancing at him sideways from beneath her long lashes.

Alston's red face became redder. 'Delighted, ma'am,' he mumbled, and stalked after her into the hall.

She led the way upstairs to the long narrow picture gallery. It had been fashioned from three attic rooms, and it housed a collection of which Aaron was very proud. There were sketches and three finished portraits by Vanderlyn, rough studies by Stuart, and miscellaneous specimens of French and Italian art. Amongst the latter were two Venuses, and a copy of Titian's 'Sacred and Profane Love'. This picture, with its clothed and naked females, always tickled Aaron. 'How true a realist was this Venetian,' he was fond of saying. 'See how much more desirable he has made the profane lady, while the chaste one is well-behaved and pallid, very pallid.'

Theo had heard this and other comments many times, scarcely listening. The pictures were an old story to her. She enjoyed the rich colors and the surprised admiration of strangers upon first viewing the collection, but familiarity had dulled her interest.

She was, therefore, astounded, after she had lit the candles, to hear Alston gasp as he took a hurried step backward.

They stood before one of the Venuses, a lush blonde adorned only by a necklet of pearls.

Theo had opened her mouth to launch upon her usual little speech of explanation—'Father had great difficulty in procuring this painting; the treatment of the flesh tones is con sidered very fine——' But her speech was cut off at the source. She stared at her companion.

He turned his head slowly from side to side like a goaded bull, and yet his eyes darted down the line of pictures, passing over the portraits and landscapes to linger surreptitiously on the nudes. He threw her a peculiar sidewise glance and cleared his throat.

She was annoyed. His embarrassment, though she had never encountered the like, affected her by contagion. The brass candlestick trembled in her hands. She became conscious of her own body, her extravagant décolletage. Her irritation increased, though she dimly comprehended that he belonged to a much less sophisticated race than the men she knew.