ay, and Fenwick, glancing at her in dismay, saw that
she was on the point of indignant tears.

Mrs. Morrison put on her spectacles. She was a small, grey-haired
woman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, from which all smiles seemed
to have long departed. Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden
anxieties--fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she moved
or spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, as though in all
directions she was afraid of what she might touch, of possibilities
she might set loose.

She looked at the picture, and then at her daughter.

'It's not flattered,' she said, slowly. 'But I can't say it isn't
like you, Bella.'

'Oh, I knew _you'd_ say something like that, mother!' said the
daughter, scornfully. She stooped and threw a shawl round her
shoulders; gathered up some working materials and a book with which
she had been toying during the sitting; and then straightened herself
with an air at once tragic and absurd.

'Well, good-bye, Mr. Fenwick.' She turned to the painter. 'I'd rather
not sit again, please.'

'I shouldn't think of asking you, Miss Morrison,' murmured the young
man, moving aside to let her pass.

'Hullo, hullo! what's all this?' said a cheery voice at the door.
'Bella, where are you off to? Is the sitting done?'

'It's been going on two hours, papa, so I should think I'd had about
enough,' said Miss Bella, making for the door.

But her father caught her by the arm.

'I say, we _are_ smart!--aren't we, mamma? Well, now then--let me
have a look.'

And drawing the unwilling girl once more towards the painter, he
detained her while he scrutinised the picture.

'Do I squint, papa?' said Miss Morrison, with her head haughtily
turned away.

'Wait a minute, my dear.'

'_Have_ I got the colour of a barmaid, and a waist like Fanny's?'
Fanny was the Morrison's housemaid, and was not slim.

'Be quiet, Bella; you disturb me.'

Bella's chin mounted still higher; her foot once more beat the ground
impatiently, while her father looked from the picture to her, and back
again.

Then he released her with a laugh. 'You may run away, child, if you
want to. Upon my word, Fenwick, you're advancing! You are: no doubt
about that. Some of the execution there is astonishing. But all
the same I don't see you earning your bread-and-butter at
portrait-painting; and I guess you don't either.'

The speaker threw out a thin hand and patted Fenwick on the shoulder,
returning imm