? Is
it a fancy dress?... Mr. Rainham, if you don't attend, I won't show
you any more pictures."

"Tyrant," said Rainham absently, as he carried his eyes from the
contemplative stare with which they had been regarding the vagaries
of a butterfly on the skylight. "What have you found now?--Kitty, by
Jove!"

He had no sooner uttered these last three words, in a very different
tone to that of his previous idle remarks, than he cursed his
indiscretion. It was a piece of _gaucherie_ which he would find it
hard to forgive in himself, and Lightmark might well resent it.

"Kitty?" asked Eve, with some surprise, "who is Kitty? Mr.
Lightmark, please tell us who this charming young lady, whom Mr.
Rainham calls Kitty, is, since he won't."

"Kitty?" repeated Lightmark, with only a momentary hesitation, which
the suddenness of the query might well account for; "I'm afraid I
don't quite remember. There are so many Kitties, you know. All
models are either Kitty or Polly. But if Rainham says it's Kitty,
depend upon it he's right. He's got a wonderful memory for faces,
especially pretty ones.--Yes," he added mischievously, "you ask
Rainham."

Mrs. Sylvester looked uneasy, and, to her subsequent disgust, began
to press "dear Mrs. Dollond" to come and see her.

Charles, who had looked up sharply at the first mention of the name,
which had so disturbed the usually imperturbable Rainham, fixed his
interrogative glasses first on the latter and then on Lightmark, and
finally let them rest, with an expression of inquiring censure, on
Rainham, whose confusion savoured to his mind so unmistakably of
guilt that "Gentlemen of the jury" rose almost automatically to his
lips. Nor did Rainham's attempt to smooth matters assist him.

"I must have seen the girl at the studio," he said, "when Lightmark
was painting her. It's certainly a striking likeness, and that's
what astonished me, you know. Almost like seeing a ghost. Ah, that
little fellow used to sit for Lightmark in Rome--little sunburnt
ruffian. We picked him up on the Ghetto, almost starving, and he got
quite an artistic connection before we left. He was positively
growing too fat; prosperity spoiled him as a model."

"Really?" said Eve listlessly. "I don't think I want to look at any
more drawings; one can have too much of a good thing, and it must be
time for us to go. We're dining out, and Charles doesn't like
dressing in a hurry. Yes, mamma is buttoning her gloves. Good-bye,
Mr.