a moment he wheeled up his
easel, with a canvass on it, ready stretched, took his palette in his
hand and fixed his eyes on the pale childish features of the daughter.
Young as she was, they already bore traces of late hours and
dissipation. Expression they had little or none. But the artist saw in
the complexion an almost china-like transparence, exquisitely adapted to
his pencil; the neck was white and slender, the form elegant and
aristocratic. And he prepared for a triumph; he intended to show the
lightness and brilliancy of his touch, for the display of which he had
hitherto lacked opportunities. He already began to fancy to himself how
the pale but graceful little lady would come out upon the canvass.

"Do you know," said the mother, with a sentimental expression of face "I
should like--you see she has a frock on now--well, I confess I should
not like you to paint her in a frock, it's so commonplace; I should like
her to be painted simply dressed, sitting in the shade of a thicket,
with fields in the distance, and sheep or a forest in the
back-ground--simplicity, the greatest simplicity, is what I should
like."

Tchartkoff set to work, arranged the sitter in the attitude he required,
endeavoured to fix the whole subject in his mind; waved his brush in the
air before him, as if establishing the principal points; half-closed his
eyes several times, retired back a step or two, examined his sitter from
a distance, and in about an hour he finished drawing in the face.
Satisfied with the effect, he now commenced painting, and his labour
rapidly grew lighter. By this time he had forgotten he was in the
presence of two ladies of high fashion, and began to fall into a few
tricks of the painting-room, uttering half-aloud various inarticulate
sounds, and at intervals humming a tune between his teeth. Without the
slightest ceremony he from time to time signed, by a movement of his
brush, to his sitter to raise her head. At last the young lady grew
weary and restless.

"That's quite enough for the first sitting," said her mother.

"Another minute," cried the painter in an absent tone.

"Impossible! Lise, three o'clock!" said the lady, looking at her
diminutive watch. "Oh, how late!"

"Only half a second," said Tchartkoff, in the wistful and beseeching
voice of a child.

But the lady was disinclined to comply. She promised him a longer
sitting another time.

"Horridly annoying!" said Tchartkoff to himself; "just as m