ntroduced me to her at
the Academy soiree last year. I expect her here this afternoon, with
her daughter. I am going to paint Miss Sylvester's portrait."

"Ah," said Mrs. Dollond mischievously, "and that accounts for the
pastille. You never made such preparations when _I_ sat to you. I
suppose you thought that a painter's wife could not possibly object
to tobacco."

"And she certainly doesn't, judging by her consumption of
cigarettes!" interposed her husband.

"Hugh, I'm ashamed of you. You know I'm a martyr to asthma--and
cigarettes aren't tobacco. But how old is Miss Sylvester? Is she
pretty?"

"Don't ask me to describe her, Mrs. Dollond. Wait till you see
her--she's coming, you know. What do you think of that river-scape,
most reverend signor? It's one of the little things I've been doing
down at Rainham's Dock--down at Blackpool."

The Academician tried to appear interested as he assumed the
conventional bird-like pose of the picture-gazer, and surveyed the
sketch.

"Very pretty--very pretty! I should hardly have thought it was the
Thames, though. It isn't muddy enough. In fact, the whole scheme of
colour is much too clean for London. Quite absurd! Not a bit like
it! Eh, my dear, what was I saying? Oh yes, I like the effect of the
sunlight on that brown sail immensely. It's really very clever, very
clever."

Mrs. Dollond, who never knew what her husband would say next,
welcomed the influx of a small throng of visitors with a sigh of
relief.

The Sylvesters and Philip Rainham, arriving at the same time, found
the little studio almost crowded. Besides the Dollonds there were
two or three of the Turk Street fraternity; a young sculptor, newly
arrived from Rome, with his wife; Dionysus F. Quain, an American
interested in petroleum, who had patronized Lightmark also at Rome;
and Copal, whose studio was in the same building, and who was
manifestly anxious about his Chelsea teacups.

Mrs. Sylvester greeted her _protege_ with a flattering degree of
warmth which was entirely absent from the stare and conventional
smile with which she honoured Mrs. Dollond, and the somewhat
impertinent air of patronage which she wore when one or two of the
young artists were introduced to her. If they did not mind, Mrs.
Dollond was inclined to be resentful, for the moment, at least; and,
as a preliminary attack, she maliciously encouraged Eve, who,
ensconced in a corner, blissfully unconscious of the maternal
anxiety which the