“Mr. Pengarth,” she said, “do you know how old I am?”

“How old, my dear?  Why, let me see!” he exclaimed.  “Fourteen and—­why, God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!”

“I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth,” the young lady announced with dignity.  “Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now—­er—­with a little more respect.”

“Nineteen!” he repeated vaguely.  “God bless my—­nineteen years old?”

“I consider myself,” she repeated, “of age.  I have come to see you about my affairs!”

“Yes, yes!” he said.  “Quite natural.”

“For four years,” she continued, “I seem to have been supported by some relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a single line or message except through you.  I have written letters which I have given to you to forward.  There has been no reply.  Have you sent on those letters, Mr. Pengarth?”

“Why certainly, my dear, certainly!”

“Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?”

Mr. Pengarth coughed.  He was not at all comfortable.

“Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric,” he answered, “and he is a very busy man.”

“Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?”

There was a dead silence.  Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm, and mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.

“I have no authority,” he declared, “to answer any questions.”

“Then can you tell me of your own accord,” she said, “why there is all this mystery?  Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to him?  Am I anything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even with his name?  I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to offer even my thanks in return.  It is too much like charity!  I have made up my mind that if this is to go on, I will go away and earn my own living!  There, Mr. Pengarth!”

“Rubbish!” he exclaimed briskly.  “What at?”

“Painting!” she declared triumphantly.  “I have had this in my mind for some time, and I have been trying to see what I can do best.  I have quite decided, now, to be an artist.”

“Pictures,” he declared sententiously, “don’t sell!”

“Mine do,” she answered, smiling.  “I have had a check for three guineas from a shop in London for a little sea piece I did in two afternoons!”

He regarded her admiringly.

“You are a wonderful child!” he exclaimed.

“I am not a child at all,” she interrupted warmly, “and you can just sit down and write to your silly client and tell him so.”

“I will certainly write to him,” he affirmed.  “I will do so today.  You will not do anything rash until I have had time to get a reply?”

“No!” she answered graciously.  “I will wait for a week.  After that—­well, I might do anything!”

“You wouldn’t leave Tredowen, Miss Juliet!” he protested.