Copal was making desperate efforts to count his precious teacups, a task which their scattered positions rendered distressingly difficult.  Charles Sylvester was somewhat listlessly cross-examining a P.R.A. in embryo as to the exact meaning of “breadth” in a painting; and Mr. Quain had been making his way as unostentatiously as the creakiness of his boots would permit towards the door.  Eve had despatched one of “the boys” in search of a portfolio to replace the one which she had exhausted, and another had been entrusted with the safe bestowal of her empty teacup.  The new portfolio, when it arrived, proved to be filled, not as the others, with landscapes and waterscapes, but with studies from life—­Capri fisher girls, groups of market people, Venetian boatmen, and hasty sketches for portraits.

Eve paused rather longer than usual over one of these, the picture of a pretty fair-haired girl, dressed as Pierrette, the general lack of detail and absence of background only making the vigorously outlined face more distinct.

“What a pretty girl, Philip!” said the young critic presently; “and how curiously she’s dressed!  What is she intended to represent?  Is it a fancy dress?...  Mr. Rainham, if you don’t attend, I won’t show you any more pictures.”

“Tyrant,” said Rainham absently, as he carried his eyes from the contemplative stare with which they had been regarding the vagaries of a butterfly on the skylight.  “What have you found now?—­Kitty, by Jove!”

He had no sooner uttered these last three words, in a very different tone to that of his previous idle remarks, than he cursed his indiscretion.  It was a piece of gaucherie which he would find it hard to forgive in himself, and Lightmark might well resent it.

“Kitty?” asked Eve, with some surprise, “who is Kitty?  Mr. Lightmark, please tell us who this charming young lady, whom Mr. Rainham calls Kitty, is, since he won’t.”

“Kitty?” repeated Lightmark, with only a momentary hesitation, which the suddenness of the query might well account for; “I’m afraid I don’t quite remember.  There are so many Kitties, you know.  All models are either Kitty or Polly.  But if Rainham says it’s Kitty, depend upon it he’s right.  He’s got a wonderful memory for faces, especially pretty ones.—­Yes,” he added mischievously, “you ask Rainham.”

Mrs. Sylvester looked uneasy, and, to her subsequent disgust, began to press “dear Mrs. Dollond” to come and see her.

Charles, who had looked up sharply at the first mention of the name, which had so disturbed the usually imperturbable Rainham, fixed his interrogative glasses first on the latter and then on Lightmark, and finally let them rest, with an expression of inquiring censure, on Rainham, whose confusion savoured to his mind so unmistakably of guilt that “Gentlemen of the jury” rose almost automatically to his lips.  Nor did Rainham’s attempt to smooth matters assist him.