mament during his absence. But Wyndham came off easily the
victor, displaying for Mr. Shanner a charming deference, and pursuing
the unruffled tenour of his entertaining conversation without
manifesting in the slightest degree any of the emotions that the evening
had raised in his breast. Such perfect unconsciousness of matters
intensely present, Mr. Shanner could not hope to emulate. It was clear
he was uneasily alive to the contrast--that he had the growing
consciousness of defeat. His note of self-emphasis rang louder, though
smothered continuously.

The war continued after dinner; Mr. Shanner eagerly turning the pages of
Miss Robinson's music, and so entirely appropriating her that Wyndham
could scarcely contrive to approach her during the rest of the evening.
However, Wyndham smilingly kept his place in the background, disdaining
to assert himself or to enter openly into emulation; though there were
opportunities he, the socially experienced, might have seized adroitly.
After all, why annoy this admirable, upright gentleman? Even as it was,
poor Mr. Shanner was fated to receive one or two sharp slashes; as when,
in the course of describing the sittings, Mrs. Robinson let it be
clearly seen that she was not always present to chaperone her daughter
in the studio. At that moment Mr. Shanner's face was an extraordinary
face to look upon; although he affected to laugh and smile, and packed
even more honey into his voice. All of which forced sweetness
notwithstanding, it began to be evident that the topic of the picture,
and of Wyndham's work in general, bored him considerably. At last, when
Mrs. Robinson innocently suggested that Wyndham should ask him to come
to see the portrait at the studio, he deprecated the idea with some
degree of vehemence. He really was very busy in the daytime now.
Besides, he added pleasantly, on principle he never cared to see an
article whilst yet on order; time enough to examine it when it was
tendered for delivery. He smiled meaningly at Wyndham as if to
accentuate that these commercial metaphors were merely by way of
pleasantry.

"And then it's so extremely difficult for an outsider to get any idea of
an unfinished picture, and of course I don't profess to be a judge of
art in any case, though I know what I like."

So, if Mr. Wyndham would excuse him, he added, he would rather wait till
the portrait had come home, and had been hung in the house.

It was not without difficulty that Wyn