et forth,
by Mr. St. Lawrence Coppinger, was not adhered to. In the first place,
there was Barty Mangan and the various affairs that he represented; in
the second place, there was the portrait; in the third place--which
might as well, if not better, have come first--the resolve had
expired, like the flame of a damp match, in the effort that gave it
birth.

Aunt Freddy welcomed the suggestion of the portrait with enthusiasm.
She had had four years of peace, "careing" Coppinger's Court for the
reigning Coppinger; to "care" the reigning Coppinger himself, was, she
felt, a far less peaceful undertaking. She agreed entirely with the
well-worn adage relative to idle hands, and had no illusions as to her
own capacity to offer alternative attractions.

"I felt," she remarked to Lady Isabel, "exactly as if someone had
deposited a half-broken young horse in the drawing-room, and had told
me to exercise it! My dear, Christian's portrait is a Godsend! But I
may tell you, in strict confidence, that, so far, it's far too clever
for an ignoramus like me to make head or tail of it!"

"It certainly fills their mornings very thoroughly," responded Lady
Isabel, rather dubiously; "Christian vanishes from breakfast time till
lunch. I suppose _you_ see more of them?"

Aunt Freddy's reply was less distinct and definite than was usual with
her. Oh, well--occasionally--yes, generally--at least, always
sometimes--he was painting her in the garden, on that seat by the yew
hedge--so sheltered and sunny, and the weather was so perfect; she was
working in the garden herself every morning. Thus did the righteous
Frederica wriggle and prevaricate, causing Lady Isabel to assume that
the full rigours of chaperonage were complied with, while to herself,
Aunt Freddy thought that it would be perfectly ideal. But what "it"
was, she did not particularise to anyone.

Mr. St. Lawrence Coppinger was not a great artist, but it had been
conceded to him, even in the studio, that he had pretty colour (which
was quite without reference to his own complexion) and a knack of
catching a likeness. Added to these gifts he possessed a third, in
being able to talk without hindering the activities of his brush. They
talked a great deal to each other during those long, delightful
mornings in the sunny corner by the yew-hedge; idle, intimate talk,
that wandered back to the days of the Companions of Finn, and on,
through stirring tales of the _Quartier Latin_ into the fu