ed-oil, varnish, and
turpentine. A sketch for Mrs. Sylvester's portrait, in crayons, was
propped against the foot of an easel (Lightmark hoped that her son
might buy it for his chambers); the canvas which he had prepared
against the much-delayed sitting due from Miss Sylvester exposed its
blank surface on another. A tall Japanese jar full of purple and
yellow irises, a tribute to his expected guests, stood on the dusty
black stove.

He had barely had time to arrange the borrowed tea-things, and to
set a kettle on a little spirit-lamp behind the screen, when Mrs.
Dollond and her husband were announced. He threw his black sombrero
somewhat theatrically into a corner, and advanced with effusion to
meet them. Mrs. Dollond had taken a decided interest in the young
painter ever since the delightfully uncandid reflection of her by no
means youthful beauty, which he had exhibited at the Grosvenor, had
provoked so much comment among her friends.

She was a plump, little, fair-haired woman, with blue eyes, a very
pink and white complexion, small hands, and a passion for dress with
which people who had known her before her marriage, as a slim maiden
devoted to sage-green draperies and square-toed shoes, declined to
credit her, until they were told that she had, to put it plainly,
grown fat--a development which compelled her to give up aestheticism
and employ a _modiste_.

Her husband, who followed her into the room, carrying her
impedimenta, wore the bored expression of the R.A. who is expected
to admire the work of an outsider. He was the abject slave of his
good-natured wife--she _was_ good-natured, in spite of her love of
scandal--and his only fault from her point of view, and his greatest
one in the eyes of people in general, lay in an unfortunate habit of
thinking aloud, a dangerous characteristic, which persons who are
apt to find themselves in the position of critic should at any cost
eradicate. Luckily, his benevolence was such that these outspoken
comments were never really virulent, and not often offensive.

Mrs. Dollond seated herself smilingly on the least rickety chair,
disposed of her veil with one neatly-gloved hand, and prepared a
tortoiseshell eyeglass for action with the other.

"What a charming portrait!" she said, pointing with her plump
index-finger to the sketch of Mrs. Sylvester. "Do I know the lady, I
wonder? Oh! I do believe it's that Mrs. Sylvester."

"Yes," said Lightmark. "If you remember, you i