"Where the men won't marry unless the girl brings a dowry?"
"The customs are different from ours," said Mrs. Trafford, patiently and pleasantly. "Raphael has done me a great honor. He has asked to paint me."
"Naturally, he's on the lookout for all the jobs he can get," said Armstrong, his mind really on his impending treaty with her husband—arranging the articles, what he would give, what demand in exchange. The instant the words were out he realized their inexcusable rudeness. He reddened and looked awkwardly big and piteously apologetic.
Trafford, who had been stroking the huge deerhound on the tiger skin before the fire, now burst in. "What's that about Raphael? Did my wife tell you she has at last persuaded him to paint her picture?"
A miserable silence. Miss Trafford had to turn away to restrain her laughter. Mrs. Trafford became white, then scarlet, then white again.
"The airs he's putting on!" continued Trafford, unconscious. "Why, they tell me his father was a banana peddler and——"
"Mr. Raphael," announced the butler, holding aside one of the ten-thousand-dollar portières.
"Oh—Raphael!" exclaimed Trafford, with enthusiasm.
"So glad you could come," said Mrs. Trafford, gracious and sweet.
"Miss Carlin," announced the butler.