ntly believe," he added in a
moment, "that he will lead me a dance."

"Nay, I prophesy nothing. I only think that circumstances, with our
young man, have a great influence; as is proved by the fact that
although he has been fuming and fretting here for the last five years,
he has nevertheless managed to make the best of it, and found it easy,
on the whole, to vegetate. Transplanted to Rome, I fancy he 'll put
forth a denser leafage. I should like vastly to see the change. You must
write me about it, from stage to stage. I hope with all my heart that
the fruit will be proportionate to the foliage. Don't think me a bird of
ill omen; only remember that you will be held to a strict account."

"A man should make the most of himself, and be helped if he needs help,"
Rowland answered, after a long pause. "Of course when a body begins to
expand, there comes in the possibility of bursting; but I nevertheless
approve of a certain tension of one's being. It 's what a man is meant
for. And then I believe in the essential salubrity of genius--true
genius."

"Very good," said Cecilia, with an air of resignation which made
Rowland, for the moment, seem to himself culpably eager. "We 'll drink
then to-day at dinner to the health of our friend."

* * *

Having it much at heart to convince Mrs. Hudson of the purity of his
intentions, Rowland waited upon her that evening. He was ushered into a
large parlor, which, by the light of a couple of candles, he perceived
to be very meagrely furnished and very tenderly and sparingly used. The
windows were open to the air of the summer night, and a circle of three
persons was temporarily awed into silence by his appearance. One
of these was Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting at one of the windows,
empty-handed save for the pocket-handkerchief in her lap, which was held
with an air of familiarity with its sadder uses. Near her, on the sofa,
half sitting, half lounging, in the attitude of a visitor outstaying
ceremony, with one long leg flung over the other and a large foot in a
clumsy boot swinging to and fro continually, was a lean, sandy-haired
gentleman whom Rowland recognized as the original of the portrait of Mr.
Barnaby Striker. At the table, near the candles, busy with a substantial
piece of needle-work, sat the young girl of whom he had had a moment's
quickened glimpse in Roderick's studio, and whom he had learned to
be Miss Garland, his companion's kinswoman. This young lady's limpid,
penet