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D) random
Answer: B
Page Ref: 18

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Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
6) Research that looks at populations of people is called
A) laboratory research.
B) experimental research.
C) peer-reviewed research.
D) epidemiological research.
Answer: D
Page Ref: 18

7) A person carrying an excessive amount of body fat above the level of being overweight is
called ________.
A) unhealthy
B) over-nourished
C) obese
D) inactive
Answer: C
Page Ref: 13

8) ________ is the part of plant foods that is not completely digested in the small intestine.
A) Phytochemical
B) Fiber
C) Supplement
D) Herb
Answer: B
Page Ref: 11

9) Carrying extra weight on your body in relation to your height is called ________.
A) upper body obesity
B) central obesity
C) malnutrition
D) overweight
Answer: D
Page Ref: 13

10) Quackery is the promotion and selling of health products and services of
A) good quality.
B) high nutrient density.
C) questionable validity.
D) questionable quality.
Answer: C
Page Ref: 21

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Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
11) The substance that bathes the inside and outside of your cells and also helps maintain body
temperature is ________.
A) hemoglobin.
B) water.
C) glucose.
D) protein.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 11

12) A substance that speeds up reactions in your body is known as

A) a placebo.
B) fiber.
C) a vitamin.
D) an enzyme.
Answer: D
Page Ref: 10

13) How many classes of nutrients are there?

A) 4
B) 5
C) 6
D) 7
Answer: C
Page Ref: 5

14) Which of the following statements is true about phytochemicals?

A) They are nutritive compounds.
B) They may play a role in fighting chronic diseases.
C) They are usually found in protein-rich foods of animal origin.
D) They have caloric energy value.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 5

15) The science that studies how the nutrients and compounds in foods affect your body and
health is called
A) food science.
B) dietetics.
C) nutrition.
D) microbiology.
Answer: C
Page Ref: 8

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Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
16) The study of the relationship between the components of food and gene expression is called
A) epigenetics.
B) nutritional genomics.
C) agricultural genomics.
D) none of the above.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 20

17) The energy value of foods is measured in units commonly referred to as

A) kilocalories.
B) kilobytes.
C) kilowatts.
D) kilograms.
Answer: A
Page Ref: 5

18) The nutrient that makes up the largest component in foods and the human body is
A) fat.
B) protein.
C) carbohydrates.
D) water.
Answer: D
Page Ref: 9

19) Of all the nutrients only ________ contains the element nitrogen.
A) carbohydrates
B) lipids
C) proteins
D) minerals
Answer: C
Page Ref: 10

20) Which of the following is usually caused due to inadequate intake of a vitamin?
A) chronic disease
B) acute disease
C) deficiency
D) dehydration
Answer: C
Page Ref: 8

21) Which nutrient is so vital to health that you wouldn't live more than a few days without it?
A) vitamins
B) water
C) minerals
D) protein
Answer: B
Page Ref: 5
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22) Which of the following is NOT true about phytochemicals?
A) They are essential nutrients.
B) They come from plant foods.
C) They may play a role in fighting chronic disease.
D) They are nonnutritive compounds.
Answer: A
Page Ref: 5

23) Which of the following causes of death in the United States is NOT nutrition related?
A) respiratory diseases
B) diabetes
C) stroke
D) cancer
Answer: A
Page Ref: 8

24) Which of the following influences the food choices people make?
A) convenience
B) food trends
C) culture
D) All of these answers are correct.
Answer: D
Page Ref: 5

25) Which of the following does nutritional genomics study?

A) the protein content of an individual
B) how certain nutrients affect an individual's gene expression
C) the genetic sequence of an individual's genome
D) the precise amount of micronutrients needed
Answer: B
Page Ref: 20

26) Which of the following are NOT macronutrients?

A) vitamins
B) carbohydrates
C) lipids
D) proteins
Answer: A
Page Ref: 9

27) Which of the following is illustrative of food insecurity?

A) A mother chooses foods that can be prepared in 15 minutes or less.
B) A student chooses pizza at a food stand on the way back to his dorm.
C) A family chooses foods that provide the most calories at the lowest cost.
D) A father starts his day with two cups of coffee every morning.
Answer: C
Page Ref: 7
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28) Which nutrient class supplies glucose as the main source of energy for the body?
A) proteins
B) vitamins
C) carbohydrates
D) lipids
Answer: C
Page Ref: 10

29) Which nutrient class is used to build body tissues and make enzymes?
A) lipids
B) proteins
C) vitamins
D) carbohydrates
Answer: B
Page Ref: 10

30) Which of the following is NOT a function of water in the body?

A) helps maintain body temperature
B) helps transport nutrients and oxygen
C) lubricates your joints
D) functions as a coenzyme
Answer: D
Page Ref: 11

31) Which food listed contains phytochemicals?

A) skim milk
B) carrots
C) eggs
D) salmon
Answer: B
Page Ref: 5

32) All of the following are correct about the typical American diet EXCEPT that it is
A) high in sodium.
B) low in vitamin D.
C) high in fiber.
D) low in calcium.
Answer: C
Page Ref: 12

33) Which of the following do Americans need to consume more of?

A) oils and vegetables
B) meat and milk
C) meat and whole grains
D) fruits and vegetables
Answer: D
Page Ref: 12
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34) What percentage of American adults are considered obese?
A) 15 percent
B) 23 percent
C) 34 percent
D) 42 percent
Answer: C
Page Ref: 13

35) Which is the first step of the scientific method?

A) revise the hypothesis
B) conduct an experiment
C) formulate a hypothesis
D) observe and ask a question
Answer: D
Page Ref: 16

36) The group given a specific treatment during an experiment is called

A) the control group.
B) the experimental group.
C) the double-blind group.
D) the blind group.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 18

37) Jim wants to improve his health and would like a professional to help him with his diet.
Which of the following would be the best person to help Jim?
A) a trainer at the gym
B) a nutritionist
C) a registered dietitian
D) his mother
Answer: C
Page Ref: 19

38) When obtaining information on the Internet, which ending for a URL is probably not as
reliable as the others?
A) .gov
B) .edu
C) .com
D) They are all equally reliable.
Answer: C
Page Ref: 21

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39) Which of the following questions is important to ask when you view a nutrition-related
website?
A) Where does the information come from?
B) Who pays for the site?
C) How does the site choose links to other sites?
D) All of these are important questions to ask.
Answer: D
Page Ref: 21

40) Which food is commonly included in Indian meals?

A) corn
B) lentils
C) mutton
D) fish
Answer: B
Page Ref: 5

41) Which of the following is NOT a proposed focus of Healthy People 2020?
A) Support food industry efforts to obtain favorable health claims on nutrition labels.
B) Eliminate preventable disease, disability, injury, and premature death.
C) Promote quality of life, healthy development, and healthy behaviors across every stage of life.
D) Create social and physical environments that promote good health for all.
Answer: A
Page Ref: 13

42) What percentage of Americans experienced food insecurity in 2008?

A) 5 percent
B) 10 percent
C) 15 percent
D) 20 percent
Answer: C
Page Ref: 7

43) Jane is sitting in the library, cramming for a nutrition test. She has eaten a plate full of
brownies and is now ordering a pizza. Which of the following is probably affecting the way Jane
is eating?
A) cost
B) advertising
C) culture
D) emotions
Answer: D
Page Ref: 7

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Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
44) All of the following are true about supplements, EXCEPT that
A) a well-balanced diet will meet the nutrient needs of many people.
B) a person who is lactose intolerant would benefit from taking an iron supplement.
C) a pregnant woman would benefit from taking an iron supplement.
D) people with diet restrictions or higher nutrient needs would benefit from supplements.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 12

45) Which of the following leading causes of death is NOT affected by nutrition?
A) heart disease
B) influenza/pneumonia
C) stroke
D) diabetes
Answer: B
Page Ref: 8

46) Which statement is NOT correct regarding the energy nutrients?

A) The amount of calories you need daily is based on your age, gender, and activity level.
B) Most of your daily calories should come from protein.
C) The energy nutrients are all organic.
D) The energy nutrients include carbohydrate, fat, and protein.
Answer: B
Page Ref: 10

47) Which is the correct definition of the term organic?

A) contains carbon
B) grown in rich soil
C) contains nitrogen
D) contains hydrogen
Answer: A
Page Ref: 10

48) Which of the following is/are NOT inorganic?

A) minerals
B) water
C) salts
D) vitamins
Answer: D
Page Ref: 10

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49) If a scientist wants to design an experiment to measure the effect of vitamin C on colds,
which would be an appropriate placebo?
A) the recommended daily amount of vitamin C
B) half the recommended daily amount of vitamin C
C) a sugar pill that does not contain vitamin C
D) the recommended daily amount of vitamin D
Answer: C
Page Ref: 18

50) A well-balanced diet includes all of the following EXCEPT

A) dietary supplements.
B) a variety of foods.
C) phytochemicals and fiber.
D) essential nutrients.
Answer: A
Page Ref: 12

True/False Questions

1) Most of the $1.6 billion spent on marketing food products to children and adolescents in 2006
was spent on promoting healthy foods such as fruits and vegetables.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 24

2) The macronutrients include carbohydrates, lipids, and proteins.

Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 9

3) The micronutrients include lipids, vitamins, and minerals.

Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 9

4) Macronutrients are so named because they are more important than micronutrients.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 9

5) Alcohol is an essential nutrient because it contains energy.

Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 9

6) Minerals are inorganic because they do not contain carbon.

Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 10

7) According to the proposed Healthy People 2020, Americans' body weights are decreasing.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 14
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8) A public health nutritionist is eligible to take the American Dietetic Association (ADA) exam.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 20

9) Being overweight is the same thing as being obese.

Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 13

10) People who are poor can be overfed in energy nutrients but malnourished in vitamins and
minerals.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 14

11) If a study is done on lab animals, the results are not relevant to humans.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 18

12) It is not a good idea to change your diet based on a single study.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 17

13) A regular magazine is just as credible as a peer-reviewed journal.

Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 18

14) The "gold standard" of research experiments is the double-blind, placebo-controlled study.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 19

15) Epidemiological research looks at populations of people.

Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 18

16) The Human Genome Project determined the complete set and sequence of DNA in human
cells.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 20

17) The genetic instructions needed to develop and direct the activities of your body are in the
proteins found in the body.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 20

18) The foods you eat do not affect the expression of genes in your cells.
Answer: FALSE
Page Ref: 20

12
Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
19) A registered dietician has passed an exam administered by the American Dietetic
Association.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 19

20) A quack is a person who promotes products solely to make money, with no regard for the
actual effectiveness of the product.
Answer: TRUE
Page Ref: 21

Short Answer Questions

1) List the six leading causes of death in the United States, and comment on which are nutrition
related.
Answer: The six leading causes of death in the United States are heart disease, cancer, stroke,
respiratory diseases, accidents, and diabetes. Heart disease, cancer, stroke, and diabetes are
related to nutrition.
Page Ref: 8

2) List the six classes of nutrients, noting which are organic and how much energy they contain,
if any.
Answer:
carbohydrates organic 4 calories/gram
lipids organic 9 calories/gram
protein organic 4 calories/gram
vitamins organic 0 calories/gram
minerals not organic 0 calories/gram
water not organic 0 calories/gram
Page Ref: 10

3) Jan and Mark are having friends over to watch a football game on television. Describe three
influences that may lead to certain food choices being made during the evening.
Answer: Influences include mood (happy, in this case), peer pressure to eat, social influences on
what people eat watching a sport (e.g. chicken wings, beer, chips), health (someone may prefer
cut-up vegetables to higher fat snacks), and convenience (ordering a pizza rather than preparing a
meal).
Page Ref: 5

4) What is the difference between a macronutrient and a micronutrient?

Answer: A macronutrient is needed in larger quantities than is a micronutrient. Vitamins and
minerals are micronutrients, and the energy nutrients (carbohydrates, proteins, and fats) are
macronutrients.
Page Ref: 9

13
Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
5) What are phytochemicals and why might they be important?
Answer: At least 900 different phytochemicals have been identified in foods so far. These
nonnutritive chemicals work with fiber, nutrients, or unknown substances in foods to provide
synergistic effects on health.
Page Ref: 11

Essay Questions

1) Sue and Joe are eating lunch in the school lunchroom. Joe says he wants to learn to eat
healthier and will be seeing a nutritionist he met at the deli last week. What advice should Sue
give Joe about seeking sound nutrition advice?
Answer: He should check the person's credentials and make sure he or she graduated from an
accredited school. He should also beware if the person giving advice is selling something
(supplements, book, etc.).
Page Ref: 19

2) Tom is writing a paper for his nutrition class and is using the Internet as a resource. Describe
what he should consider when deciding whether a site is reliable or not.
Answer: If a site URL ends in ".edu" or ".gov" it is probably a reliable site. If the site is not
selling something, this is also a good sign. If the people who sponsor the site are open about their
credentials, such as their being medical doctors or registered dieticians, then the site is more
credible. A site sponsored by a pharmaceutical company may be prone to push their drugs or
treatments and not be unbiased. Links should also be credible. How current is the information on
the site?
Page Ref: 21

3) Describe a situation in which your emotions led you to make inappropriate food choices.
Answer: Note that whether a person is bored, lonely, sad, happy, celebrating an event, or angry
may influence the types of foods and the quantities the person consumes.
Page Ref: 7

4) Discuss how our cultural background influences our food choices. Give specific examples.
Answer: Italians like pasta, Asians eat a lot of vegetables and rice and soy-based foods, the Irish
eat potatoes, and Hispanics eat rice/beans and corn tortillas.
Page Ref: 5

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Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
5) Describe an experiment you would design to test the following hypothesis: Vitamin C
supplements cure colds.
Answer: An appropriate experiment would involve two groups of individuals of the same sex
and age. They are given a cold through inhalation of a cold virus. They then are divided into two
groups: experimental group and control group, which gets a placebo. The experiment is double-
blind. The experimental group receives vitamin C supplements (same dose to each person). Signs
and symptoms of both groups are tracked over 10 days. After data collection and analysis,
conclusions are made as to whether the vitamin C had an effect on the cold.
Steps:
A. Select a large number of subjects with colds.
B. Randomly divide them into two groups (experimental vs. control).
C. Give the placebo or vitamin C.
D. Compare results.
Page Ref: 16

15
Copyright © 2013 Pearson Education, Inc.
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
piece of property it is worthless. As a revelation——” he had
stopped.
St. Aubyn had smiled. “I deal in revelations—professionally,” he
said.
That had told Paul the secret he had already guessed.
“What a head-line for the evening papers,” he had said
whimsically. “‘A Peer’s Secret! Threatened Exposure by Eminent
Artist!’ But I’m not a blackmailer, and I don’t take hush-money. The
picture is yours or no one’s.”
They had argued a little more. At last St. Aubyn had taken it.
“And about the inscription?” It had been Paul’s parting shot.
“From a painter to a——?”
St. Aubyn had shaken his head.
“Experience is against endorsements, however cryptic, on secret
documents,” he had said. “Sooner or later the cipher is sure to be
read.”
And he had gone away, leaving Paul the sole possessor of his
secret, a secret which Paul had summed up in one brief sentence
addressed to a Chinese idol on his mantelpiece.
“The man, God help him, is a poet.”
A month later he had received a small volume of poems
addressed in a hand in which he had already received three short
notes agreeing to sittings. The verses—true poetry—were written
under a nom de plume. What St. Aubyn’s reason was for keeping his
poetical talent a secret from the world Paul never knew. The volume
came to him in silence from the author; he respected the silence,
attempting no word of thanks. And the secret his insight had
wrested from the man went with other secrets somewhere away in
the hidden recesses of his mind, while his work alone absorbed him.
He never pursued his knowledge of men and women further. It
sufficed—or seemed to suffice him—to portray that knowledge on
canvas, and leave it for those to read who had the heart to do so. As
he had passed before among men and women of varied
nationalities, making no real friends, so he passed now among
varied types, noting them, painting them, and dismissing them, still
making no friend. The lonely reserve he had gained in his
wanderings pursued him now. He could not throw it off. Barnabas
and Dan were nearer true friendship with him than any, and more
because they had silently accepted him for their friend than from
any advance on his part. It seemed that he could make none. The
solitude of the plains, the loneliness of big spaces, seemed to have
claimed his spirit.
And so he painted portraits, from statesmen to small girls,
gaining intimate knowledge of them, while no one yet had learnt to
know the real Paul.

It was very much later in the day, long after Marjorie had
departed led by an indignant nurse muttering to herself regarding
the carelessness of “them artists,” for not only Marjorie’s face, but
her best white dress was covered with various smears of brown
chocolate—it was long after this that Paul looked once more at his
pocket-book. He looked at it to make sure that the hour Christopher
would arrive for him was four-fifteen, and not four o’clock. The
former was there plainly inscribed, written by Paul with a small gold
pencil.
There were just two entries for that day—Friday, November
27th, “M.A. 10 o’clock” and “4.15 o’clock. C.C.” Little did Paul think
as he looked at it that he would treasure that small page as one
would treasure one’s passage to heaven.
Christopher arrived at the studio punctually to the second, and
found Paul ready for him. The two turned into Oakley Street and
came down towards the Embankment. It was already past sunset,
and the houses and river were shrouded in a soft mist. They reached
the house near Swan Walk and went up the steps.
“The Duchessa di Corleone at home?” asked Christopher of the
footman who opened the door.
“Will you come this way, sir,” was the answer, and he led them
up the wide shallow stairs. He threw open a door.
Paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the chrysanthemums
like patches of sunlight. A woman rose from a chair by the fire and
came forward to greet them. The window was behind her as she
came forward, and the room being in twilight he could not see her
face distinctly, but he saw the outlines of her graceful figure, and
caught the glint of her red-brown hair.
She held out her hand.
“It is very charming of you to come and see me, Mr. Treherne,”
she said. “Pietro, the lights.”
Paul heard the sound of three or four tiny clickings near the
door, and the room became full of a soft mellow light. Had the light
been a trifle brighter, or her voice a shade less natural, the whole
thing might have verged on the theatrical. As it was, it was simply a
revelation to Paul as, for the first time, he saw the Duchessa di
Corleone.
She stood before him smiling—a smile that just lit up her eyes
and trembled on her mouth. He saw that her skin was smooth like
ivory, that her lips were crimson like wine beneath oiled silk, that her
hair was the colour of a chestnut newly wrested from its sheath.
All this Paul saw almost without realizing it. For suddenly his
heart heard a tune—one that is played silently throughout the ages,
and to most of us the hearing of the tune comes slowly and
gradually, a note at a time. But to a few—as to Paul—it comes
suddenly, played in full melody. He felt vaguely that he had been
waiting for that tune all his life, listening for it on the plains, in the
silence of the night under the stars.
 But he merely bowed and said in the most ordinary and
conventional voice in the world:
“It was very good of you to ask me to come and see you.”
For Paul did not yet know the meaning of the tune. In his lonely
life he had never before even heard an imitation of it. And because
the music was very strange and very beautiful he listened to it with
something like awe.
And then he heard Christopher’s voice.
“I ought to have told you, Sara, that Mr. Treherne is an artist of
strange moods, and that sometimes he refuses—in the most polite
and diplomatic way, of course—to accept commissions.”
The Duchessa looked at Paul.
“I don’t think Mr. Treherne will refuse to paint my portrait. At
least I hope not.”
“I shall be honoured to paint it,” Paul replied.
The words were conventional. Since he intended to accept the
commission it was very nearly the only phrase he could have used,
yet there was something in his utterance of the words that seemed
just to lift them from the commonplace. Perhaps it was the direct
way in which he spoke them. Paul had generally a very direct
manner of speech.
Anyhow, Sara glanced at him, and an indefinable something in
his eyes caused an odd little movement in her heart. The room in
which they were sitting seemed suddenly brighter, the
chrysanthemums a more beautiful colour, the logs on the fire more
than usually crackly and pleasant. For so it is that two people who
are complete strangers to each other sometimes meet and in some
subtle way, and without realizing it at the time, the whole world has
altered for them. And the invisible gods laughed softly, and the grim
old fates smiled, and drew two threads of their weaving, which had
hitherto had nothing to do with each other, a little closer together.
 Before Paul left the house on the Embankment it was arranged
that the Duchessa should come to his studio the following morning
at eleven o’clock for her first sitting.
 CHAPTER XII
PRINCESS PIPPA AWAKES

MISS Mason threw a large shovelful of coal on to the fire, then

turned to Barnabas, who was sitting astride on a chair, his arms
resting on its back, and looking at her with a slight twinkle of
amusement in his eyes.
“It’s all very well for you to smile, Barnabas,” she said
energetically, “but if my model hadn’t failed me, do you suppose for
one moment that I should allow you to be sitting there wasting my
morning, and incidentally wasting your own?”
“No waste, dear Aunt Olive,” said Barnabas imperturbably. He
had calmly given her the title one day, and it had been adopted by
the five other artists of the courtyard. It had pleased Miss Mason
immensely, though she occasionally pretended to look upon it as an
impertinence. “No waste, dear Aunt Olive. The enormous benefit I
invariably derive from your conversation is of incalculably greater
advantage to me than the time I should otherwise spend in dabbing
paint on canvas. The canvas is always destroyed at the end of two
hours, unless the subject happens to be a commission. Your
conversation abides for ever engraven on my memory.”
“Barnabas, you’re a fool,” retorted Miss Mason. “Besides, if you
were not here I should paint a still life.”
“Oranges against a green or blue earthenware jar—I know,” said
Barnabas sorrowfully. “Dear aunt, cui bono? You have dozens of
oranges already on canvas, to say nothing of the blue and green
jars. You could paint them in your sleep. Why make another
representation of them?”
 “Don’t mock at my work,” said Miss Mason severely. “You have a
lifetime before you, and can afford to waste mornings. I cannot.
Remember my age.”
“I’ll try to do so, since you wish it,” returned Barnabas. “It is,
however, the one thing I invariably forget.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Mason. “However, if you won’t go, where
is my knitting? I can’t sit entirely idle.”
She took a bundle of white woolwork from a side table. Two
steel knitting-needles were stuck into it. She sat down in the big oak
chair by the fire, and in a moment the needles were clicking busily.
She looked more like one of the three Fates than ever. And
somewhere away in a back street a scrap of humanity must have
heard the clicking needles, and a thread of white wool must have
stretched out invisibly to draw it towards the hands that held them.
Though at the moment Miss Mason knitted serenely unconscious of
the fact.
Barnabas watched her in silence.
“For the poor?” he asked politely, after a couple of minutes.
“Babies,” said Miss Mason shortly. “They get little enough
welcome, poor mites; but knowing that a white jacket with a bit of
blue ribbon run through it is waiting for them, helps the mothers to
look forward to their advent with a certain degree of pleasure. It’s
curious, the effect of little things.”
“I should hardly have thought——” began Barnabas.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” interrupted Miss Mason. “You’ve never
had a baby. Neither have I, for the matter of that.”
She looked up and caught Barnabas’ eyes fixed on her.
“Barnabas, you’re disgraceful!” she exclaimed. “I never know
what I say when I begin to talk to you.”
“Therein lies the charm of your conversation,” he assured her.
“It is always so unpremeditated.”
 “Huh!” said Miss Mason, and she returned to her knitting.
She looked exactly the same as she had looked six months
previously, except that there was a new and curious radiance about
her eyes. They looked as if they were absorbing happiness, and
giving it forth again in actual light. Also her black dress had given
place to a grey one.
The style being unprocurable at any modern shop, she had
engaged a sewing-woman to make it for her. The woman was firmly
persuaded that Miss Mason was quite mad, but finding her an
extremely generous customer, she was perfectly ready to seam grey
cashmere into any pattern Miss Mason might require. She had once
gone so far as to announce that the costume was picturesque.
Something in her manner as she made the statement had annoyed
Miss Mason.
“Picturesque! Nothing of the kind!” Miss Mason had retorted. “It
is serviceable and comfortable, and suited to a woman of my age.
Some women of sixty make fools of themselves in a couple of yards
of silk nineteen inches wide. I make a fool of myself in twelve yards
of cashmere forty inches wide. That’s all the difference. But I prefer
my own folly.” And the sewing-woman had retired crestfallen.
“I saw Paul yesterday,” remarked Barnabas after a moment.
“I like him,” said Miss Mason succinctly.
“So do I,” returned Barnabas. “He is so refreshingly clean. He
always looks as if he had just completed a toilette in which baths,
aromatic soap, and hair-brushes had played an important part.”
“Yet he manages to escape looking shiny,” said Miss Mason.
“We all take baths,” went on Barnabas thoughtfully; “at least, I
hope so. But with the majority of people one has to take the fact of
their scrupulous cleanliness more on faith than by sight. With Paul it
is so extraordinarily apparent.”
“What is he doing at the moment?” asked Miss Mason.
 “Painting the portrait of a certain Duchessa di Corleone. I
happened to see the lady leaving the studio. She is remarkably
beautiful. Paul has the devil’s own luck. I have to spend my time
painting middle-aged women with hair groomed by their maids till
they look like barbers’ blocks, or pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual
smile.”
“Don’t paint them if you dislike doing it,” said Miss Mason.
“Dear Aunt Olive, I must.”
“No such thing. You have an excellent private income.”
“I grant you that. It is, however, not the point. I am a portrait
painter. It is my métier. To be a portrait painter one must paint
portraits. The two things are inseparable.”
“Paint models, then,” said Miss Mason. “Choose your subject.”
“It is not the same thing,” replied Barnabas gravely. “A model
who is paid for sitting does not rank with a creature who pays one to
immortalize their material features on canvas. To say I have a model
coming to sit for me this morning is nothing. To say the Lady
Mayoress of So-and-So comes to my study at eleven o’clock this
morning is quite another matter. At first your fellow-artists say, ‘Pure
swank on his part.’ But when eleven o’clock arrives, and with it the
Lady Mayoress in a gold coach with four horses and velvet-breeched
lackeys with cocked hats—why, then the whole thing assumes totally
different proportions. I am regarded in a new light. I become a
person of importance among my fellow-men. I gaze upon a double
chin, boot-button eyes, and a smile that won’t come off, enduring
mental torture thereby, in order that later I may strut from my studio
with an air of swagger, and hear myself spoken of as ‘John Kirby, the
portrait painter.’ And once more I ask you, how can one attain to the
distinction of portrait painter if one does not paint portraits?”
“Barnabas, you’re ridiculous,” said Miss Mason. “You talk of
nothing seriously, not even your art which you love. But if you could
be serious for ten minutes, I’d like to ask you about a scheme I have
in my mind.”
 There was a little hesitancy in the last words. Barnabas looked
up quickly.
“I’m attending,” he said gravely.
“You know,” said Miss Mason quietly, “that for a woman who
spends as little as I do I am very rich.”
Barnabas nodded. “I thought you must have a good bit of
money,” he said, glancing round the studio.
Miss Mason followed the direction of his glance.
“That was rather—what you would call a splurge—on my part,”
said Miss Mason. “Fact is, I have about fifteen thousand a year. If I
spend two in the year it will be all I shall do.”
“Yes,” said Barnabas gravely.
“Of course,” went on Miss Mason, growing gruffer as she
became more in earnest, “I’ve told you how much I care for art.
Suppose I inherited the love of it from my father. See now, it’s little
use loving it if one doesn’t get the chance to work when one’s young
—I mean as far as one’s own creation is concerned. Get a lot of
pleasure dabbing paint on canvas, making pictures of oranges, and
drawing charcoal heads. But the time’s past for me to do anything
serious in that line. Glad you’re honest enough not to contradict me.
Been thinking, though, that there must be others who would like the
chance. Care so much myself, would like to help them.” She stopped.
“A ripping idea,” said Barnabas warmly.
“Thought,” went on Miss Mason, “that if five thousand pounds a
year went for that purpose it’d be something—give twenty would-be
artists the chance, anyhow. Each would-be artist to have an income
of two hundred and fifty pounds for five years while they are
studying—longer if you thought well. Then another to take their
place. Want them to be people who’d really care. Love the work.
Want you to help me. Don’t rush the matter. If you can find the right
people let me know. You’re a young man. Would like to appoint you
as my executor in the scheme. You could carry on the work. Would
like, though, to see it started.” Miss Mason looked anxiously at
Barnabas. The little speech had cost her a great effort. It was the
outcome of the thought of many weeks.
Barnabas met her look. “There’s nothing I should like better
than to help you in the scheme,” he said warmly. “It’s fine. By Jingo!
Twenty men to have their chance every five years. Think of it!”
“Am ready to include women too,” said Miss Mason, “as long
as”—she continued, getting gruffer than ever—“they aren’t giving up
other duties to it. Might find some women glad to have a chance
too. Would have liked it myself. You go about among people. Can let
me know later. Don’t rush it.”
“It’s fine,” said Barnabas again. “Aunt Olive, you’re a brick!”
The boyish compliment brought the colour to Miss Mason’s
cheeks.
“Glad you like the idea,” she said.
A sudden gust of wind tore round the studio, and a torrential
shower, half of sleet, half of hail, beat down upon the skylight.
“Abominable weather!” said Miss Mason, clicking her knitting-
needles furiously. She did not even now guess how near to her the
scrap of humanity had been drawn by the thread of white wool.
“We have much for which to be thankful,” began Barnabas
piously, “a blazing fire, a roof——”
His further reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“See who it is, will you?” said Miss Mason. “Sally is busy. If it is
a beggar send him or her away. I don’t encourage them.”
Barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth of the
statement. He heaved himself off the chair and went towards the
door.
There was a moment’s parley. Then he returned, followed by a
small and weird figure. Its sex was indistinguishable. A man’s coat
frayed and torn reached to the top of a pair of patched boots many
sizes too large for the feet they covered, a man’s slouched hat hid
nearly the whole of the face.
“It says it is a model,” announced Barnabas. “Its language is a
mixture of French and broken English.”
Miss Mason let her knitting fall.
“A model!” she exclaimed, looking at the odd creature.
The figure in the old coat saw the fire. It made an instant dart
towards it.
“Ah!” The sigh was one of intense satisfaction. The hands,
hidden by the frayed coat-sleeves, were held out towards the
leaping flames.
“You’re cold?” asked Miss Mason quickly.
The figure nodded its head.
“Who sent you to me?” she demanded.
“Personne. But I know Keetie Jenkins ’as been model for you.
She tell me you ask ’er when you bring ze baby ze white jacket. Mrs.
Jenkins ’as taken Keetie away, so I tink I do instead of Keetie.”
“Huh,” grunted Miss Mason. “Haven’t seen you yet. So the
Jenkinses have gone, have they? That accounts for Kitty failing me
this morning. They might have taken the trouble to let me know.”
The small figure by the fire raised its head quickly. Miss Mason
and Barnabas had a glimpse of a pointed chin and a scarlet mouth.
“Mrs. Jenkins she is too un’appy. You see Georgie ’e is dead.”
“Georgie! Never heard of him. Who was he?” demanded Miss
Mason.
“’Er little boy.” The reply came seriously. “’E die of doing too
many lessons. Mrs. Jenkins say Keetie not die zat way. She ’as gone
to ze country, where ze ’spectors not so ’ticular, she say.”
 “A unique death,” remarked Barnabas gravely. “I don’t fancy
many little boys die of that complaint. Have you ever posed before?”
“Mais, oui.” The head was nodded vigorously. “Sall I pose for
you?”
“Don’t know what you’re like yet,” said Miss Mason.
“There is a proverb, O infant,” supplemented Barnabas, “which
instructs one never to buy a pig in a poke. Acting on that principle, it
is impossible for us to decide on a model attired as you are.
Therefore——” he broke off.
“Oh, my tings,” she nodded gravely. “I take zem off.”
The figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. It was followed
by the coat and the boots, which later were kicked off, disclosing
bare feet small and well-arched.
There stood before them a slip of a girl-child, in a faded green
frock, black hair cut square on the forehead and at the nape of the
neck, after the fashion of some mediæval page, the face white, with
pointed chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes grey with pupils
large and very black. She might have been about nine years old.
She raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastening
mysterious strings. Before Miss Mason was aware of her intention,
she slid suddenly out of her clothes and stood on the hearthrug
before them, naked as the day on which she was born.
“Bien?” she queried.
Miss Mason gave a faint shriek.
“Barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio at once. I never
paint a nude model. It is against all my principles to do so. Put on
your clothes again at once, child. Barnabas, stop laughing. I know
you’re perfectly brazen on the subject. Remember, in spite of my
age, I’m an unmarried woman.”
Barnabas picked up a piece of scarlet silk drapery from the
model stand and flung it round the child, who was looking from him
to Miss Mason in astonishment. When she was enveloped in its folds
he spoke.
“Miss Mason, my child, is not used to seeing little girls in their
birthday attire. It surprised her. She has a penchant for petticoats
and frocks, to say nothing of stockings. She might, however, be
persuaded to paint you draped as you now are. You look, by the
way, uncommonly like a scarlet poppy.”
The child looked gravely at Barnabas.
“She not paint se altogezzer?” she demanded.
“Precisely. She does not paint what the immortal Trilby termed
‘the altogether,’ which phrase you have just made your own.”
The child nodded her head.
“Mais, oui. Some peoples zey do not. I hear Monsieur Thiery say
one time it toute à fait extraordinaire zat some peoples ’shamed to
look at ze greatest ’andiwork of God. I did not know, me, zat ze
peoples who live in ze vrais ateliers zey tink it shame.”
“We all have our little prejudices,” said Barnabas lightly. “Naked
little girls is apparently one of Miss Mason’s.”
He smiled whimsically at that lady.
“Shall we paint this infant?” he asked her. “Can the woolly
jackets be put on one side, and may I fetch my palette?”
“If you like,” said Miss Mason shortly. “It’s nice of you not to
laugh at my prejudices, Barnabas.”
“There are moments when I rather like them,” he assured her.
And he vanished from the studio.
When he returned it was to find Miss Mason kneeling by a low
chair on which the child was seated. The red silk was off the
shoulders, and Miss Mason was sponging an ugly bruise on the
child’s back. She turned her head as Barnabas entered.
“Look at this,” she said in a low, indignant voice.
 “Who did it?” asked Barnabas.
“Some brute she calls Mrs. Higgins.” Miss Mason’s voice augured
ill for that lady, had she been at hand.
“Mrs. ’iggins drunk,” said the child patiently. “She often drunk.
Ver’ drunk last night.”
Miss Mason put some ointment on the bruise, and covered it
with a piece of soft linen. Then she wrapped the red silk again round
the child. She sat down in the big chair and drew the child to her.
“Now, little one,” she said, speaking in French, “tell us all about
it.”
“Oh!” cried the child rapturously, “you speak French.” Her face
had gone crimson with excitement.
“Tell us everything,” said Miss Mason.
It came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. Her name was
Pippa. She had lived in Paris with Madame Barbin. Madame Barbin
washed clothes till they were white—oh, but very white. Pippa had
posed for artists. She loved Madame Barbin, but she had died—a
year, perhaps two years, ago. Madame Fournier had taken care of
her then. She did not like Madame Fournier, who was cross. Then
Madame Fournier had brought her in a ship to England. Perhaps that
was a year ago. Anyhow, it was cold weather. They had lived in
different houses, and finally at Mrs. Higgins’ house, and Pippa had
posed for different artists in London. Some time in the summer,
Madame Fournier had gone away, leaving Pippa with Mrs. Higgins.
She had not come back. Mrs. Higgins was angry—very angry,
according to Pippa. She beat her occasionally, but not always very
badly. Bruises were likely to be seen on one who poses for “the
altogether.” Lately, however, Mrs. Higgins had been too angry to
remember that fact. Hence the bruises of the previous evening. In
reply to further questioning it was found that Pippa knew no one she
had ever called father or mother. There were only Madame Barbin,
Madame Fournier, Mrs. Higgins, and the names of quite a good
many well-known artists for whom she had posed. She also stated
that she washed herself every morning, though Mrs. Higgins said it
was “un’ealthy.” And she washed and dried her underclothes when
Mrs. Higgins was away at the public-houses, where she spent most
of her time.
“Yes,” Miss Mason nodded. “The child is clean, at all events.”
And then suddenly at the end of the recital, Pippa swayed a
little sideways, and if Barnabas had not sprung forward she would
have fallen on the hearthrug. As it was, she lay in his arms, her face
dead white against the scarlet folds of silk. In a word, Pippa had
fainted.
Barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and opened the door
and windows. Miss Mason fetched brandy and a large cut-glass
bottle of smelling-salts, which she held to the child’s nose, making a
curious clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting that there
were no feathers handy to burn. But presently, in spite of the lack of
feathers, Pippa opened her eyes.
Then Barnabas put a question.
“When did you last have food?” he asked, watching her.
Pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and pushed back the
dark hair.
“Yesterday,” she said feebly. “Bread and treacle”—she rolled the
r’s in a funny way—“at dinner-time.”
“And nothing since then!” cried Miss Mason in horror. “Oh! that
Mrs. Higgins!”
But Barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing commands to
Sally.
“Bread, Sally, quick. Cut it in small pieces and put them in a
saucepan with lots of milk. Is there a good fire? Yes. Ever made
bread and milk in your life before?” And Sally flew round.
Ten minutes later Barnabas and Miss Mason were feeding a
small famished girl, who was looking at them as if they were gods
from another world, and at the bread and milk as if it were the
nectar and ambrosia they had brought with them.
And when the blue basin was empty Barnabas lifted Pippa in his
arms, and guided by Miss Mason, carried her into the inner room,
and laid her like a little broken poppy in Miss Mason’s bed. Together
they tucked her in, and saw the white eyelids close slowly over the
great grey eyes.
Then they went out into the studio. And Barnabas threw the
man’s coat and hat, and the old boots into a corner. The other
garments he put on the model stand.
“I shall come back by and by,” he said, “and see how the small
creature is getting on.”
He looked in twice during the day to find that she was still
asleep. It was after sunset when he came the third time, and it was
to find her sitting near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and
slices of bread and butter, while Miss Mason was telling her that
most entrancing of fairy tales—“The Sleeping Beauty.”
Barnabas sat down and waited. Every now and then he looked
at the child with a puzzled expression in his eyes. Suddenly he threw
back his head. He very nearly whistled. Something that had eluded
him had been discovered.
The egg and the story were finished. There came a silence.
The child’s eyes wandered round the studio. They lighted on the
faded green dress lying on the model stand. A queer little look of
sadness that should be foreign to a child’s face crept back into her
eyes.
She slid down from her chair, and stood solemnly before Miss
Mason.
“I tank you bof ver’ much,” she said, with a quaint air of
courtesy. “But now I put on zem tings and go back to Mrs. ’iggins.”
 She smiled a brave little smile, sadder than any tears or
protests.
Barnabas felt a sudden odd grip at his throat. Miss Mason spoke
suddenly and firmly.
“No,” she said, “you are not going back to Mrs. Higgins.”
The child looked at her with wondering eyes.
“You mean——?” she said.
“That you are going to stay here with me,” said Miss Mason
decisively. “Barnabas, you must help me to arrange it.”
The child’s face quivered.
“Oh!” she cried, with a laugh that held a sob, “I tink I like dat
Princess. She sleep and sleep, and she wake up when ze Prince kiss
her, and ze world all ver’ ’appy. And I so ’appy just all ze same,
wisout no Prince kiss me.”
And then Barnabas did a queer thing. He put his arm round the
child and kissed her lips.
 CHAPTER XIII
AT THE WORLD’S END

BARELY half an hour after Miss Mason’s sudden decision Barnabas

set out for a small and rather unwholesome street somewhere in
the direction of the World’s End. It was given by Pippa as the locality
in which Mrs. Higgins had her residence.
It was not entirely on Miss Mason’s account that Barnabas was
anxious to make further enquiries regarding the child. As he walked
along the King’s Road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from
the feet of many passers-by, his mind travelled back to memories
which Pippa’s face had awakened in him.
They were memories some fourteen or fifteen years old, of the
time when he was a young art student. A scene he had almost
forgotten came clearly back to him. He saw a big class-room full of
easels and men working and smoking. He saw himself, very young,
very full of enthusiasm, yet at the moment very full of despair. He
saw himself looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble
attempt to reproduce on canvas the figure of the nude model who
was standing on the platform before him. He saw the master coming
near, and heard his words. They were few but sarcastic. He had felt
that the whole room was listening to them. First an insane desire to
sink into the floor had overwhelmed him, then a feeling that he had
better take his canvas and brushes and fling them into the river. It
had been mere presumption on his part to dream of art as a career.
He had seen the other figures in the room through a kind of hazy
blur. The voice of the master as he went from easel to easel had
come to him as through cotton-wool. He did not notice that almost
equally sarcastic remarks were being levelled at the other canvases,
and were being received by their owners with indifference or with
good-humoured laughter. He had heard the door close presently as
the master left the room. Then he heard a voice at his elbow—a
curiously musical voice:
“It’s a pity Saltby looks upon sarcasm in the light of instruction
in art. He can paint quite decently himself, but he has no more
notion of teaching than a tom cat.”
Barnabas remembered that he had turned to look at the
speaker, and had seen a dark foreign-looking man standing beside
him. The man had looked at him sharply.
“That fellow has worried you,” he said. “They’re just calling rest.
Come along out and have a smoke.”
Barnabas remembered following him into the corridor. He
remembered the curious feeling of restful strength the man had
given him as they walked up and down together.
“I’m going to give you a bit of advice,” he had said suddenly.
“Remember this, that the opinion of one man, even if he happens to
be your master, counts for nothing. The moment you touch any art—
painting, sculpture, music, or literature—you’re laying yourself open
to criticism, and you’ll find any amount of it adverse. Don’t let it
discourage you. If you’ve got the inner conviction that you can do
something, forge ahead and do it. Don’t be damped by adverse
criticism. If you can learn from it, learn; but don’t let it kill the germ
of belief in yourself.”
“But can’t one be mistaken in the belief that one can do
something?” Barnabas remembered asking.
“If you are mistaken you’ll find it out for yourself,” the man had
replied earnestly. “My dear boy, the men who can’t, and never will,
do anything are those who are so cocksure of themselves that they
are impervious to sarcasm and every adverse criticism under the
sun. It simply doesn’t hurt them. It does hurt us. It touches us on
the raw. But we’ve got to go on. You felt like chucking the whole
thing just now. I’ll be bound it wasn’t exactly that your self-vanity
was wounded, but because you felt that it had been utterly
presumptuous of you ever to have attempted to lift your eyes to the
Immortal Goddess. My dear boy, she loves men to look at her and
worship her, from however far off. It’s those who say they are paying
her homage, but who all the time are looking at and worshipping
themselves, for whom she has no use. Go on worshipping her. Keep
big ideas before you and one day you may get near the foot of her
throne. It’s not given to many to touch her knees. But to worship at
the foot of the throne is something. Why, even to look at her from
afar is worth years of struggle. Saltby keeps one eye on her I grant,
but he keeps the other on himself, and it makes him the damned
conceited and sarcastic ass he is....”
Barnabas seemed to hear the voice distinctly, to feel the
magnetism of the man who had spoken the words so many years
ago.
He remembered later in the evening hearing two students
speaking of the man.
“Kostolitz is a weird chap,” one had said; “mad as a hatter.”
“Spends half his time like a tramp,” said the other, “going
around the country and writing poetry, and the other half in
sculpting. Every now and then he takes it into his head to come in
here and draw a bit. He says it freshens him up to see beginners on
their way to fame.”
Barnabas remembered that Kostolitz had come to him at the
end of the morning and had suggested their walking back to Chelsea
together. It had been the beginning of their friendship.
The man’s face came persistently before him this evening as he
pursued his way towards the World’s End.
Other little speeches of his returned to his mind. “I love colour,”
he seemed to hear him saying, “but I can’t work in paints. They
aren’t my medium. I want to get to the solid. Give me a lump of clay
and I’m happy. It’s nonsense to say there’s only colour in actual
coloured things. There is colour in everything—words, music,
thoughts—the world’s steeped in colour if you can only see it. Why,
man, it may seem odd to you, but people even give me the sense of
colour. Perhaps it’s the old Eastern idea of auras, I don’t know.
Anyhow, that idea is too mixed up with spiritualism and closed
rooms to appeal to me. Give me the open air, the sunshine, flowers,
and singing birds. I can believe in fairies, gnomes, the People of the
Wind, and the People of the Trees, anything that is of the Spirit of
Nature. There they sit together—Nature and Art—the two great
goddesses, bless them; and men try to separate Art from Nature.
They can’t, man, I tell you they can’t.”
Barnabas could almost see the man’s eyes—passionate grey
eyes—fixed on him as he remembered the words. And it was the
memory of those eyes that Pippa’s eyes had awakened in him, and
with their memory had brought the other scenes before him. The
memory had awakened as he had watched her listening entranced
to the story of “The Sleeping Beauty.” He had seen the eyes of his
friend Kostolitz looking at him from the small pale face, and suddenly
he had seen the whole wonderful likeness the child bore to the man.
Kostolitz was dead, had been dead now many years. Had he left
behind him this scrap of humanity, holding perhaps a spirit as
poetical and intense as his own, to battle with the world? If it were
so, for the sake of that friendship, it must be protected. And
something told Barnabas that he was not mistaken in his belief.
He turned now into the small dark street. He found the house
whose number Pippa had given him, and knocked on the door. It
was opened by a large, slatternly woman with a watery eye.
“That you, Pippa?” she exclaimed. “’Ere, you come in, and I’ll
give you somethink staying hout like this.”
Then she saw Barnabas. Visions of N.S.P.C.C. inspectors rose
suddenly before her mind. Mrs. Higgins quailed inwardly.
“Well?” she asked, and her voice was truculent because her
spirit was quaking, “and wot can I do for you, sir?”
“Am I,” asked Barnabas suavely, “addressing Mrs. Higgins?”
“That’s my nime,” replied the lady, arms akimbo.
 “I believe,” continued Barnabas, still suavely, “that you have had
charge of a child—a little girl named Pippa.”
“I ’ave,” said Mrs. Higgins defiantly, “and a more hungrateful,
huntruthful, little baggage I hain’t never set heyes on. Hif you ’ave
hanythink to say about ’er, per’aps you’ll kindly step hinside.”
Barnabas stepped into the small passage. It was ill-smelling,
redolent of dirt and boiled cabbage. Mrs. Higgins herself breathed
gin. She was, however, at the moment tolerably sober.
“I understand,” said Barnabas, “that she came here with a
Madame Fournier.”
Mrs. Higgins blazed. “She did. A French ’uzzy wot took and
disappeared last June, leaving me with ’er child. Friend’s child she
called it. I know them gimes. Just about as much a friend’s child as
Madame ’ad a right to ’er title or ’er ring wot she wore so conspikus,
I’ll be bound. Leaving me with the child on me ’ands, wot I kep’ from
charity, and never so much has a penny piece to pay for ’er keep but
wot she gets from them hartists as she goes to.”
“Then the child,” asked Barnabas, “is no relation of yours?”
“Relation of mine!” cried Mrs. Higgins indignantly and virtuously.
“Do yer think hif she belonged to me as I’d allow ’er to be standing
naked fer men to look at. I’m a respectable woman, I am, I thanks
the Halmighty.” Mrs. Higgins ended with a loud sniff.
Barnabas suddenly felt a sensation of almost physical nausea.
He seemed to hear Kostolitz’s voice begging him to leave the place,
to get away from the filth of the atmosphere, and above all never to
let the child return to it.
“Then,” said Barnabas decisively, “you will no doubt be glad to
be relieved from the burden of maintaining her. She will not return
here, and she will be provided for.”
Mrs. Higgins gasped at the suddenness of the statement. She
felt something like dismay. She saw Pippa’s earnings, which had
added largely to her weekly income, disappearing in the distance.
 “And ’ow about the hexpense I’ve been put to!” she exclaimed.
“Yer don’t feed a growing child for six months fer nothink, and me as
kind to ’er as hif I’d been ’er own mother.” Mrs. Higgins began to sob
here, moved to tears by the memory of her own tenderness.
Barnabas’ mouth set grimly.
“I think, Mrs. Higgins,” he remarked, “that the less you say
about your treatment of the child the better. As far as her keep is
concerned her own earnings have no doubt paid you more than
adequately for the food you have given her. As however you will lose
them in the future——”
He pulled two sovereigns from his pocket.
“Take these,” he said briefly, “and good evening.”
He turned from the house leaving Mrs. Higgins gaping and
astonished. It is a mercy when the Mrs. Higginses of the world can
be thus easily disposed of.
Barnabas walked away down the street, marvelling at the fact
that man had originally been created by God in His own image.

He went straight back to studio number seven, where he found

Miss Mason anxiously awaiting him. He sat down and gave her a
brief account of his search and its results, omitting, however, a
description of the dirt and smells.
“And so,” he ended, smiling, “you mean to keep this waif?”
“I couldn’t let her go,” said Miss Mason. “Did you see her eyes?”
Barnabas had. But the look in them had hurt him too much for
him to care to think about it. So he merely said lightly:
“Where is she now?”
 “Asleep on half a dozen cushions and among blankets on the
floor of my room. She has had a bath and been wrapped again in
that red silk. She’ll have to live in it till I can get her some more
clothes. I’ve burnt the others, and put the hat, coat, and boots in
the dust hole. In spite of her poor little attempts at cleanliness, one
never knows.”
“One does not,” said Barnabas grimly, thinking of the house she
had come from. “May I smoke?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Miss Mason. She liked the scent of tobacco in
her studio. She felt it to be part and parcel of Bohemia.
There was a long silence.
Miss Mason was thinking of the child lying asleep in the next
room. She had an odd feeling that the Fates had sent Pippa directly
to her that she might in a way atone to herself for her own lonely
childhood by making this morsel of humanity happy. She had already
begun to weave the dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers.
And Barnabas’ thoughts had again travelled back to his friend
Kostolitz, and the thoughts made his eyes grave and a little sad.
“I am going over to Paris to-morrow,” he said suddenly,
breaking the silence.
“Yes?” queried Miss Mason.
“You know that oil-portrait that hangs by my mantelpiece?” he
asked. “Doesn’t a likeness strike you?”
Miss Mason looked up. She felt suddenly a little anxious.
“Of course,” she said slowly. “I never thought of it before. It’s
the image of Pippa.”
Barnabas nodded.
“I saw it when I came back into the studio and found her at
tea.”
There was a pause.
 “Who is the portrait?” asked Miss Mason.
“A man I knew long ago,” said Barnabas. “His name was
Philippe Kostolitz. He was a strange man—an Hungarian. He was a
true vagabond, yet certainly of good birth. I knew nothing of his
people, if he had any. He was half gipsy and wholly artist. The statue
of the little faun in my garden is his work. He gave it to me. We
were great friends.”
“Ah,” said Miss Mason softly. “And where is he now?”
Barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. He had been baptized
a Catholic, and in spite of his present rather Pagan views regarding
life he had retained this beautiful custom. There was an innate
instinct of reverence in Barnabas.
“In Paradise I hope. He was killed nine years ago in a railway
accident. It was a horribly prosaic ending for a man whose whole
nature was the essence of poetry.”
Miss Mason was silent. After a moment she spoke.
“Then you think that Pippa——” she broke off. She was looking
straight at Barnabas.
“I don’t know,” he said bluntly. “The likeness is extraordinary. In
Paris I might find out something from the artists for whom she
posed. I know one or two of them personally.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Mason. “The journey, of course, will be
my affair.”
“That,” said Barnabas, “is pure nonsense. If Pippa—you see,
Kostolitz was my friend.”
“But I wish it,” said Miss Mason. And something in her voice
made Barnabas give way.
Ten minutes or so later he left the studio.
Before Miss Mason put out her light that night she went across
to the heap of cushions and blankets and looked at Pippa. She
touched her cheek gently with one wrinkled hand. It was long before
Miss Mason slept. She lay awake listening to the regular sound of
the child’s breathing.

The morning, with the variability of English weather, broke still

and sunny, a touch of frost in the air.
Barnabas looked in at Miss Mason’s studio before he left for
Paris.
He found that lady sitting in her chair knitting. Pippa was curled
up on the hearthrug, the red silk tightly swathing her slim body. A
pair of shoes and stockings of Sally’s, many sizes too big for her,
covered her feet. She was watching Miss Mason with the eyes of an
adoring puppy.
She scrambled to her feet as she saw Barnabas.
“Ah!” she cried, a note of great pleasure in her voice. “It is ze so
sunny Monsieur. I wis you good morning.”
Barnabas came over and stood on the hearthrug.
“I’m just off,” he said.
“I knew you’d look in,” said Miss Mason. “I waited for you before
going out to buy garments.”
“Going away?” asked Pippa, looking at him with troubled eyes.
She had had experience of people who went away and did not
return.
“Only for a few days, and mainly on business which concerns
you, little one,” he replied.
Pippa gave a relieved sigh.
“Come back ver’ quick,” she said. And then suddenly: “What is
your name?”
 He laughed. “You must call me Barnabas,” he said.
She nodded her head. “Monsieur Barnabas,” she said slowly.
Then she turned to Miss Mason “What sall I call you?” she asked.
A sudden little tender thought sprang into Miss Mason’s mind.
She put it aside.
“You can call me,” she said rather gruffly, “Aunt Olive.”
Again the child nodded her head. “Aunt Oleeve and Monsieur
Barnabas, c’est bon.” She looked an odd little elfin figure as she
stood there watching them.
“I must be off,” said Barnabas. “I’ve no time to lose.”
Pippa came to the door with him.
“Bon voyage,” she cried, waving her hand. And then suddenly
she saw the marble faun in the next garden.
“Ah!” she cried. “Quel beau petit garçon!” She darted down one
path and up another.
The last thing Barnabas saw, as he looked back before leaving
the courtyard, was a poppy-coloured figure standing in the wintry
sunshine beside a white marble faun. The child had her arms
familiarly round the faun’s neck.
He painted that picture later when the days were warmer. It
was a picture that was to travel far away from England, and it was to
keep alive in the heart of a woman the memory of a secret—a secret
of three weeks of glorious happiness and a strange regret—a secret
known only to herself and to three other living people.
 CHAPTER XIV
VARIOUS MATTERS

AND so Barnabas departed to Paris in the attempt to find some

clue regarding the scrap of humanity which the Fates had led to
Miss Mason’s studio. It was not that Miss Mason cared in the
smallest degree what her parentage was. She was just a lonely little
soul needing love, and so Miss Mason had taken her into her arms
and into her big heart. Dan had once said of Miss Mason, and only
shortly after making her acquaintance:
“I veritably believe that woman has the biggest hands, the
biggest feet, and the biggest heart of any woman in Christendom.”
And the more he knew of her the more convinced he felt of the truth
of his statement.
But even a big heart is not entirely sufficient guarantee for
taking possession of a small girl. One can no more pick one up and
keep it than one can pick up a valuable ornament and place it on
one’s mantelpiece. At any rate, if one did there would always be the
uncomfortable feeling that the rightful owner might one day walk
casually up to it and say:
“That is mine.”
Barnabas understood this, and therefore he had gone off to
Paris to see if there were any likelihood of a rightful owner turning
up one day to claim Pippa. It was wiser that Miss Mason should not
get too attached to her possession before he had made sure on that
point. Also there was the memory of Philippe Kostolitz.
But while he was gone Miss Mason petted the child to her
heart’s content, bought dainty undergarments and charming frocks,
and played that delightful game of “mother,” which is a game all
women have played throughout eternity at some time in their lives,
even if it is only played with a rag doll wrapped in a shawl.
And while she was playing, and while Pippa was enjoying the
game almost as much as she was and revelling in frilly petticoats,
long black stockings, buckled shoes, and soft green frocks—green
seemed to belong to her, for some reason, as a matter of course—
the other five artists of the courtyard were living their lives, painting
their pictures, smoking their pipes, and being happy or miserable
according to their moods.
And it is perhaps safe to say, though a great pity to have to say
it, that Jasper’s mood of the last six months had been one of utter
depression.
At first, when he had walked away from the ugly little house in
Chiswick, he had felt—in spite of the shock he had received at
Bridget’s unexpected attitude towards him—a certain exultation in
the thought that duty would never compel him to take that route
again. He told himself that he rejoiced in his freedom, but after a
day or so he had found it necessary to emphasize that point to
himself with a certain degree of insistence. Phrases she had used
began to return to his mind at odd moments. In the midst of
painting an angel’s wing, or trying to concentrate on the beatific
expression of some saint’s face, he would suddenly hear her voice:
“I wanted to ask your help, to tell you what I had suffered. I
could not.”
And again, when painting some piece of flame-coloured drapery,
he would hear the words:
“How did you try to help me? By talking calm platitudes through
a kind of moral disinfectant sheet which you held between us——”
And yet again, as he tried for the strength of courage in the
face of the warrior angel, he would hear her saying:
“You have not had the manhood to help me.”