She had just furnished them with a sample of this classical food for thought when the door-bell rang and Neville looked up in astonishment to see Jose Querida come in.

“Hello,” he said, springing up with friendly hand outstretched—­“this is exceedingly good of you, Querida.  You have not been here in a very long while.”

Querida’s smile showed his teeth; he bowed to Valerie and to Rita, bowed to the men in turn, and smiled on Neville.

“In excuse I must plead work, my dear fellow—­a poor plea and poorer excuse for the pleasure lost in seeing you—­” he nodded to the others—­“and in missing many agreeable little gatherings—­similar to this, I fancy?”

There was a rising inflection to his voice which made the end of his little speech terminate as a question; and he looked to Valerie for his answer.

“Yes,” she said, “we usually have tea in Kelly’s studio.  And you may have some now, if you wish, Jose.”

He nodded his thanks and placed his chair beside hers.

The conversation had become general; Rita woke up, dumped the cats out of her lap, and made a few viciously verbal passes at Ogilvy.  Burleson, earnest and most worthy, engaged Querida’s attention for a while; but that intellectually lithe young man evaded the ponderously impending dispute with suave skill, and his gentle smile lingered longer on Valerie than on anybody else.  Several times, with an adroit carelessness that seemed to be purposeless, he contrived to draw Valerie out of the general level of conversation by merely lowering his voice; but she seemed to understand the invitation; and, answering him as carelessly as he spoke, keyed her replies in harmony with the chatter going on around them.

He drank his tea smilingly; listened to the others; bore his part modestly; and at intervals his handsome eyes wandered about the studio, reverting frequently to the great canvas overhead.

“You know,” he said to Neville, showing the eternal edge of teeth under his crisp black beard—­“that composition of yours is simply superb.  I am all for it, Neville.”

“I’m glad you are,” nodded Neville, pleasantly, “but it hasn’t yet developed into what I hoped it might.”  His eyes swerved toward Valerie; their glances encountered casually and passed on.  Only Rita saw the girl’s breath quicken for an instant—­saw the scarcely perceptible quiver of Neville’s mouth where the smile twitched at his lip for its liberty to tell the whole world that he was in love.  But their faces were placid, their expressions well schooled; Querida’s half-veiled eyes appeared to notice nothing and for a while he remained smilingly silent.

Later, by accident, he caught sight of Valerie’s portrait; he turned sharply in his chair and looked full at the canvas.

Nobody spoke for a moment; Neville, who was passing Valerie, felt the slightest contact as the velvet of her fingers brushed across his.