who were old acquaintances.

"May, you have never met Mr. Kenwick, I think," said Pauline.

"Oh, yes, I have," May declared; "but it was ages ago and he never would
take any notice of me."

"Do let me make up for it now," Kenwick begged, rapidly setting his
palette, by way of elucidating his request.

"How long ago is ages ago?" asked Daymond.

"Four years ago last winter," was the unhesitating reply. "It was when I
was fifteen and Mr. Kenwick used to come to see my sisters."

"My memory does not go back as far as that," said Kenwick. "I'm a child
of the hour."

He was a man well on in the thirties, who looked as if he had lived
hard; and since there was nothing in his chosen calling to account for
such an impression, the observer was led to seek its origin in the realm
of speculation. He had, to be sure, painted several good pictures, but
that was ten years ago. Since then he had lived on his reputation,
materially reinforced by a not inconsiderable income. As Pauline watched
his face, it struck her that his smile, which she had always objected
to, had grown positively glittering in its intensity. Uncle Dan, for his
part, thought the young man seemed amusing, but he wished he had not
happened to be old Stephen Kenwick's grandson.

"Then we may have you?" Geoffry was asking.

"I thought it was the poppies you wanted," said May, suspiciously.

"It is! it is!" cried Kenwick with fervour.

"But you make such a pretty setting," Daymond explained; "your dress,
you know, and the general colour-scheme."

"What fun to be a colour-scheme," cried May. "Uncle Dan, do you think I
might be a colour-scheme?"

"I don't know that you can help it," was Uncle Dan's rejoinder, intended
to express a proper resignation, but betraying, quite unconsciously, an
appreciation of more than the pale blue gown as a background.

Then Nanni, having returned to his post, was directed to row out a
little from shore, and presently the two artists were at work, rapidly
sketching in the bright figure with the slim black prow for a foil, and
the silvery reaches of the lagoon beyond.

Uncle Dan was sitting in the chair where he could watch the faces of the
young men. There was something in Kenwick's manner that antagonised him;
it was, somehow, too appreciative.

"I make a condition," the Colonel exclaimed abruptly, in his voice of
martinet. "If there's a likeness the sketch is forfeited."

"I'm safe," Geoffry laughed. "I never got a lik