Maryon Rooke was a man the merit of whose work was just beginning to be noticed in the art world.  For years he had laboured unacknowledged and with increasing bitterness—­for he knew his own worth.  But now, though, still only in his early thirties, his reputation, particularly as a painter of women’s portraits, had begun to be noised abroad.  His feet were on the lower rungs of the ladder, and it was generally prophesied that he would ultimately reach the top.  His gifts were undeniable, and there was a certain ruthlessness in the line of the lips above the small Van Dyck beard he wore which suggested that he would permit little to stand in the way of his attaining his goal—­be it what it might.

“You’d make a delightful picture, Sun-kissed,” he said, narrowing his eyes and using one of his most frequent names for her.  “With your blue violet eyes and that rose-petal skin of yours.”

Nan smiled involuntarily.

“Don’t be so flowery, Maryon.  Really, you and Penelope are very good antidotes to each other!  She’s just been giving me a lecture on the error of my ways.  She doesn’t waste any breath over my appearance, bless her!”

“What’s the crime?”

“Lack of application, waste of opportunities, and general idleness.”

“It’s all true.”  Rooke leaned forward, his eyes lit by momentary enthusiasm.  They were curious eyes—­hazel brown, with a misleading softness in them that appealed to every woman he met.  “It’s all true,” he repeated.  “You could do big things, Nan.  And you do nothing.”

Nan laughed, half-pleased, half-vexed.

“I think you overrate my capabilities.”

“I don’t.  There are very few pianists who have your technique, and fewer still, your soul and power of interpretation.”

“Oh, yes, there are.  Heaps.  And they’ve got what I lack.”

“And that is?”

“The power to hold their audience.”

“You lack that?  You who can hold a man—­”

She broke in excitedly.

“Yes, I can hold one man—­or woman.  I can play to a few people and hold them.  I know that.  But—­I can’t hold a crowd.”

Rooke regarded her thoughtfully.  Perhaps it was true that in spite of her charm, of the compelling fascination which made her so unforgettable—­did he not know how unforgettable!—­she yet lacked the tremendous force of magnetic personality which penetrates through a whole concourse of people, temperamentally differing as the poles, and carries them away on one great tidal wave of enthusiasm and applause.

“It may be true,” he said, at last, reluctantly.  “I don’t think you possess great animal magnetism!  Yours is a more elusive, more—­how shall I put it?—­an attraction more spirituelle. . . .  To those it touches, worse luck, a more enduring one.”

“More enduring?”

“Far more.  Animal magnetism is a thing of bodily presence.  Once one is away from it—­apart—­one is free.  Until the next meeting!  But your victims aren’t even free from you when you’re not there.”