from the first with the simple goodwill natural to her. She went and seated herself by Madeline, who had on her lap a little portfolio.
"These are the drawings of which I spoke," said Madeline, half opening the portfolio.
"Mr. Marsh's? Oh, I shall be glad to see them!"
"Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we'll look at them again to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character."
They were small water-colours, the work—as each declared in fantastic signature—of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and by Madeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was expected to arrive any day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been informed, were natural scenery; the style, impressionist. Impressionism was no novel term to Cecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelligently directed to good work in that kind ; she knew, of course, that, like every other style, it must
