The Business of Life. Robert W. Chambers

you might wish us to do it."

      "Is that still part of your business?"

      "It is."

      "Well," he said, after a moment's thought, "I am going to sell the Desboro collection."

      "Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, under her breath; and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again.

      "Your attitude is not very professional—for a dealer in antiques," he said quizzically.

      "I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro." She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.

      "I am very sure you are," he said. "Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed."

      "I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day," she said, in a low voice.

      He said: "I am sorry it is not to be so," and had the grace to redden a trifle.

      She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him—an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.

      To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like—all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.

      She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full—that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets—perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve——

      "Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss Nevers?" he asked vaguely.

      "No."

      "What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise it?"

      "I could go."

      "You!" he said, surprised and smiling.

      "That is my profession."

      "I knew, of course, that it was your father's. But I never supposed that you——"

      "Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr. Desboro?" she interrupted dryly.

      "Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn't know what to ask for anything."

      "Have you really decided to sell that superb collection?" she demanded.

      "What else can I do?" he inquired gayly. "I suppose the Museum ought to have it, but I can't afford to give it away or to keep it. In other words—and brutal ones—I need money."

      She said gravely: "I am sorry."

      And he knew she didn't mean that she was sorry because he needed money, but because the Museum was not to have the arms, armour, jades, and ivories. Yet, somehow, her "I am sorry" sounded rather sweet to him.

      For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From moment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child's. Nor could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its delicate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips, just a trifle too sensuous—and that soft lock astray again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed, either. And it was as though she divined his thought, for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and impertinent—sentiments not often experienced by that young man.

      "I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Nevers," he concluded, "I'll write you a letter to my housekeeper, Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you'll go up and look over the collection and let me know what you think of it!"

      "Do you not expect to be there?"

      "Ought I to be?"

      "I really can't answer you, but it seems to me rather important that the owner of a collection should be present when the appraiser begins work."

      "The fact is," he said, "I'm booked for a silly shooting trip. I'm supposed to start to-morrow."

      "Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My full name is Jacqueline Nevers—if you require it. You may use my desk."

      She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain, and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline Nevers, and give her the keys to the armoury.

      While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the room backward and forward, her pretty head thoughtfully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely, absorbed in her cogitations.

      Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watching her until, happening to glance at him, she discovered his idleness.

      "Have you finished?" she asked.

      A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realising that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also realised that he didn't want to. And he began to spar with Destiny for time.

      "I suppose this matter will require several visits from you," he inquired.

      "Yes, several."

      "It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a collection, doesn't it?"

      "Yes."

      She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and there seemed to be in her brief replies no encouragement for him to linger. So he started to pick up his hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his facile wits saved him at the last moment.

      "Well, upon my word!" he exclaimed. "Do you know that you and I have not yet discussed terms?"

      "We make our usual charges," she said.

      "And what are those?"

      She explained briefly.

      "That is for cataloguing and appraising only?"

      "Yes."

      "And if you sell the collection?"

      "We take our usual commission."

      "And you think you can sell it for me?"

      "I'll have to—won't I?"

      He laughed. "But can you?"

      "Yes."

      As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly, under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capability—oddly at variance with her allure of lovely immaturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its soft, fresh beauty, was a woman's, and already firmly moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness of the lips could not deny. For if she had the mouth of Aphrodite, she had her brow, also.

      He had not been able to make her smile, although the upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to promise something. He wondered what her expression might be like when animated—even annoyed. And his idle curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence.

      "May I say something that I have in mind and not offend you?" he asked.

      "Yes—if you wish." She lifted her eyes.

      "Do you think you are old enough and experienced enough to catalogue and appraise such an important collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself, but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert."

      She