y near to his favourite club.

A few minutes before the appointed hour he made his way, from the
new and alarmingly revolutionary club-house, where he had been
indulging in afternoon tea in company with Felicia Dollond, to the
gallery, outside which his horses were already waiting, and,
perceiving Oswyn's name on the placards disposed on either side of
the entrance, he felt only a momentary hesitation.

Oswyn would probably not be there; and, after all, why should he not
inspect the man's pictures?

Before reasons had time to present themselves he had passed into the
room, and had been deferentially welcomed and presented with a
catalogue by the proprietor in person.

The room was still crowded, and it was oppressively warm, with an
atmosphere redolent of woollen and silken fabrics, like a milliner's
shop on the day of a sale.

At first he made no effort to join his wife, whom he discerned from
afar talking to a pillar of the Church in gaiters and a
broad-brimmed hat.

He looked at the pictures whenever there was a break in the sequence
of bows and greetings which had to be exchanged with two-thirds of
the people in the room; and as he looked he was smitten with a quick
thrill of admiration: he was still young enough to recognise the
hand of the master. And in his admiration there was a trace of a
frank envy, a certain unresentful humiliation--the feeling which he
could remember to have experienced many times in the old days, when
he put aside the sonnet he had just finished for some fashionable
magazine, and took down from his limited bookshelf the little
time-worn volume which contained the almost forgotten work of a poet
whose name would have fallen strangely on the editorial ear.

Before long there was a general departure, and Lightmark, flushed
with the triumphs of a conversation in which, in the very centre of
an admiring group of his antagonist's worshippers, he had
successfully measured swords with a notorious wit, turned to look
for his wife; and, for the first time, meeting Oswyn's eye,
half-involuntarily advanced to greet him.

"This is an unexpected honour," said Oswyn coldly, disregarding the
proffered hand; "unexpected and unwelcome!"

Then he would have turned away, leaving his contempt and hatred
unspoken, but his passion was too strong.

"Have you come to seek ideas for your next Academy picture," he
continued quickly, with a sneer trembling on his lips, "or for the
_Outcry_?"

Lightmark