"Understand what?" he asked.
"That you were an artist," she explained.
"But I'm not. I'm only a curio hound for a kindly old gentleman named Banning, who gives me a car and pays me money for wandering about and enjoying life."
"But you paint," she reminded him.
Conkling could afford to laugh at her solemnity.
"I thought I could paint once, but two years in Paris showed me I was barking up the wrong tree. About all I'm good for now is to size up other people's painting."
The girl's gaze became impersonal.
"They found that out," she admitted.
"Who did?"
"My aunts; and they're rather sorry now about Nero."
"Why?" he asked, with his eyes on her rapt young face. She was, after all, more of a child than he had imagined. But he had not missed the heat-lightning smile of humor that had played momentarily about her lips. And he was grateful for it. It humanized her; it tended to authenticate
