a young girl of eighteen, her daughter.

"Monsieur Tchartkoff, I believe?" said the lady. The painter bowed.

"I have seen your name in the papers; your portraits, they say, are
incomparable." With these words the lady put her glass to her eye, and
glanced round the walls, which were bare. "But where are all your
portraits?"

"They are not arrived," said the artist, a little confused; "I have just
removed into these rooms, the pictures are still on the road--they will
soon be here."

"You have been in Italy?" said the lady, turning her eye-glass on the
painter in the absence of the paintings.

"No, I have not been there exactly--I intend to go--I have been
compelled to put it off; but pray do me the honour to sit down; you must
be tired."

"You are very kind, but I have been sitting--in my carriage. Ah, at
last, I see some of your works!" said the lady, running up to the
opposite side of the room, and levelling her glass at some canvasses
placed on the floor, studies, sketches, interiors, and portraits.
"_C'est charmant! Lise, Lise! venez ici_: there's an interior in the
manner of Teniers, see: all is in disorder, higgledy-piggledy, a table
with a bust upon it, a hand, a palette; and the dust, look how well the
dust is painted! _c'est charmant!_ And there is another canvass, a woman
washing her face--_quelle jolie figure!_ Oh, and there's a _mujik_!
Lise, Lise! a _mujik_ in a Russian shirt! look, do look--_a mujik_! So
you don't paint portraits only?"

"These are mere trifles--done for amusement, in an idle moment--mere
studies----"

"But do tell me your opinion of the portrait-painters of the present
day? Isn't it true, that we have none at present like Titian? There's
not that force of colouring, not that,----really, what a pity it is that
I cannot express what I mean in Russian." The lady was passionately fond
of painting, and had run, eye-glass in hand, over all the galleries in
Italy. "Only, I must say, that Monsieur Dauberelli--ah, how he paints!
What an extraordinary touch! I find more expression in his faces than
even in Titian's. You know Monsieur Dauberelli?"

"Dauberelli! who is he?" asked the artist.

"Such talent! He painted my daughter when she was only twelve years old.
You must come and see it, really you must. Lise, you shall show him your
album. But I want another portrait of my daughter, and that is the
motive of my visit. Can you begin at once?"

"Directly, madam, if you please." And in