The dinner hour approached and Mrs. Fabian came out on the piazza.
"How are you, poor child?" she asked with commiseration; then meeting Kathleen's eyes, she laughed. "Here I am pitying you, and you look as if you'd been left a million. What is it? Is Mr. Tremaine so pleased with your stories?"
"He thinks they'll do," returned Kathleen.
"Very modest," said Mrs. Fabian; "but I'm quite sure from your looks that he said you were a second Hans Christian Andersen. Keeping it a secret from me, too! I'm a very good judge of stories, and you might have asked my opinion about those, at any rate."
"I felt very shy about it, mother, but now I'm just bubbling with encouragement; and perhaps Phil will make the pictures."
Mrs. Fabian regarded the rosy face admiringly.
"There, you see his business is coming along, and this morning I gave him the commission to paint our portraits."
Even this news could not dampen Kathleen's present mood.
"Yours," she returned. "Remember, I told you I refused to be perpetuated as I look now."