of Madonna lilies.  Innocent found herself looking at this portrait now and again—­there was something familiar in its expression which had a curious fascination for her.  But her thoughts revolved chiefly round a difficulty which had just presented itself—­she had no real name.  What name could she take to be known by for the moment?  She would not call herself “Jocelyn”—­she felt she had no right to do so.  “Ena” might pass muster for an abbreviation of “Innocent”—­she decided to make use of that as a Christian name—­but a surname that would be appropriately fitted to her ultimate intentions she could not at once select.  Then she suddenly thought of the man who had been her father and had brought her as a helpless babe to Briar Farm.  Pierce Armitage was his name—­and he was dead.  Surely she might call herself Armitage?  While she was still puzzling her mind over the question the door opened and a little old lady entered—­a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty and delicate as the fairy-godmother of a child’s dream, with white hair bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather plaintive expression of mingled hope and enquiry.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she began—­then paused in a kind of embarrassment.  The two looked at each other.  Innocent spoke, a little shyly: 

“I saw your advertisement in the ‘Morning Post,’” she said, “and I thought perhaps—­I thought that I might come to you as a paying guest.  I have to live in London, and I shall be very busy studying all day, so I should not give you much trouble.”

“Pray do not mention it!” said the old lady, with a quaint air of old-fashioned courtesy.  “Trouble would not be considered!  But you are a much younger person than I expected or wished to accommodate.”

“You said in the advertisement that it would be suitable for a person studying art, or for a scholarship,” put in Innocent, quickly.  “And I am studying for literature.”

“Are you indeed?” and the old lady waved a little hand in courteous deprecation of all unnecessary explanation—­a hand which Innocent noticed had a delicate lace mitten on it and one or two sparkling rings.  “Well, let us sit down together and talk it over.  I have two spare rooms—­a bedroom and a sitting-room—­they are small but very comfortable, and for these I have been told I should ask three guineas a week, including board.  I feel it a little difficult”—­and the old lady heaved a sigh—­“I have never done this kind of thing before—­I don’t know what my poor father, Major Leigh, would have said—­he was a very proud man—­very proud—!”

While she thus talked, Innocent had been making a rapid calculation in her own mind.  Three guineas a week!  It was more than she had meant to pay, but she was instinctively wise enough to realise the advantage of safety and shelter in this charming little home of one who was evidently a lady, gentle, kindly, and well-mannered.  She had plenty of money to go on with—­and in the future she hoped to make more.  So she spoke out bravely.