a merely casual figure among others not less important even where
he had been most intimate. He knew that his own world, despite its
breeding and traditions, would yet at bottom despise him and his art if
he could not earn an excellent livelihood by its practice. But the
Robinsons worshipped him for himself; and money was almost a vulgarity
sullying the high artistic universe in which he moved and breathed and
had his being.

X

Meanwhile the sittings were progressing in a manner to gratify the
artist beyond his hopes. Miss Robinson seemed to find some mysterious
inspiration in this decorative scheme, seemed to fuse into it, to lend
herself to design and draughtmanship. Her face, too, took on subtler
phases, was touched to a measure of nobility! Her dark eyes shone softly
under their long lashes; her expression was full of goodness and
charity. Wyndham prided himself that he had put on the canvas something
remote from the lines of ordinary portraiture--a simple soul, a gentle
Lady Bountiful, yet not less dignified in her way than the heroines of
the grand portraiture.

Mrs. Robinson did not insist on uninterrupted chaperonage of her
daughter; the ladies evinced little fanaticism on this head. Often they
brought knitting or needle-work with them, which occupied the mother in
a peaceful, old-fashioned way that Wyndham even found himself admiring.
Sometimes Mrs. Robinson would appear only towards the end of the
sitting, and sometimes she considerately announced that Alice would
have to come alone for the next occasion as she herself was otherwise
busy. They both showed a tact and a good taste in the matter which he
fully recognised, and for which in a way he was grateful.

In the natural resulting intimacy between artist and sitter, Miss
Robinson expanded, opened out her mind; at first timidly and
tentatively, ultimately with freedom and confidence. She confessed that
her experience of life had been nothing at all, since she had always
lived in quiet shelter. Her unsophisticated simplicity was certainly
engaging; he could see that she was a sheet entirely unwritten upon,
that her soul was as naive and trusting as her outward being. She was
refreshingly a child of nature--no bewildering complexity here--no
shadow of affectation. She spoke without reserve of the poverty of her
childhood, and admitted that she had disagreeable qualms of conscience
about their present riches. Was it right to enjoy so much when one