ld by a
ragged, cripple child, who gazed up at her with a look of innocent
adoration. Hard by stood a miserable creature with an infant at her
breast, she too adoring the representative of health, wealth, and
charity. Behind, a costermonger, out of work, sprawled on the
curbstone, viewing the invader; he, with resentful eye, his lip
suggestive of words unreportable. Where the face of the central figure
should have shone, the canvas still remained blank.

"I'm afraid he's worried about _her_," said the landlady, when she had
lit the gas, and stood with Warburton surveying the picture. "He can't
find a model good-looking enough. I say to Mr. Franks why not make it
the portrait of his own young lady? I'm sure _she's_ good-looking
enough for anything and--"

Whilst speaking, the woman had turned to look at a picture on the wall.
Words died upon her lips; consternation appeared in her face; she stood
with finger extended. Warburton, glancing where he was accustomed to
see the portrait of Rosamund Elvan, also felt a shock. For, instead of
the face which should have smiled upon him, he saw an ugly hole in the
picture, the canvas having been violently cut, or rent with a blow.

"Hallo! What the deuce has he been doing?"

"Well, I never!" exclaimed the landlady. "It must be himself that's
done it! What does _that_ mean now, I wonder?"

Warburton was very uneasy. He no longer doubted that Franks had
purposely avoided him this afternoon.

"I daresay," he added, with a pretence of carelessness, "the portrait
had begun to vex him. He's often spoken of it discontentedly, and
talked of painting another. It wasn't very good."

Accepting, or seeming to accept this explanation, the landlady
withdrew, and Will paced thoughtfully about the floor. He was back in
Switzerland, in the valley which rises to the glacier of Trient. Before
him rambled Ralph Pomfret and his wife; at his side was Rosamund Elvan,
who listened with a flattering air of interest to all he said, but
herself spoke seldom, and seemed, for the most part, preoccupied with
some anxiety. He spoke of Norbert Franks; Miss Elvan replied
mechanically, and at once made a remark about the landscape. At the
time, he had thought little of this; now it revived in his memory, and
disturbed him.

An hour passed. His patience was nearly at an end. He waited another
ten minutes, then left the room, called to the landlady that he was
going, and let himself out.

Scarcely had he