y be fine, but when I think of my
unhappy portrait I tremble for the whole. He has communicated this
striking idea under the pledge of solemn secrecy to fifty chosen spirits,
to every one he has ever been able to button-hole for five minutes. I
suppose he wants to get an order for it, and he is not to blame; for
Heaven knows how he lives. I see by your blush," my hostess frankly
continued, "that you have been honoured with his confidence. You needn't
be ashamed, my dear young man; a man of your age is none the worse for a
certain generous credulity. Only allow me to give you a word of advice:
keep your credulity out of your pockets! Don't pay for the picture till
it's delivered. You have not been treated to a peep at it, I imagine! No
more have your fifty predecessors in the faith. There are people who
doubt whether there is any picture to be seen. I fancy, myself, that if
one were to get into his studio, one would find something very like the
picture in that tale of Balzac's--a mere mass of incoherent scratches and
daubs, a jumble of dead paint!"

I listened to this pungent recital in silent wonder. It had a painfully
plausible sound, and was not inconsistent with certain shy suspicions of
my own. My hostess was not only a clever woman, but presumably a
generous one. I determined to let my judgment wait upon events. Possibly
she was right; but if she was wrong, she was cruelly wrong! Her version
of my friend's eccentricities made me impatient to see him again and
examine him in the light of public opinion. On our next meeting I
immediately asked him if he knew Mrs. Coventry. He laid his hand on my
arm and gave me a sad smile. "Has she taxed _your_ gallantry at last?"
he asked. "She's a foolish woman. She's frivolous and heartless, and
she pretends to be serious and kind. She prattles about Giotto's second
manner and Vittoria Colonna's liaison with 'Michael'--one would think
that Michael lived across the way and was expected in to take a hand at
whist--but she knows as little about art, and about the conditions of
production, as I know about Buddhism. She profanes sacred words," he
added more vehemently, after a pause. "She cares for you only as some
one to band teacups in that horrible mendacious little parlour of hers,
with its trumpery Peruginos! If you can't dash off a new picture every
three days, and let her hand it round among her guests, she tells them in
plain English that you are an impo