o show his work. He muttered
something about there being 'more to see in a day or two.'

'There's a great deal to see already,' said Lord Findon. 'But, of
course, do as you like. Eugenie, are you ready?'

'Please!--may I be exhibited?' said Madame de Pastourelles to Fenwick,
with a smiling appeal.

He gave way, dragged the easel into the best light, and fell back
while the two men examined the portrait.

'Stay where you are, Eugenie,' said Lord Findon, holding up his hand.
'Let Arthur see the pose.'

She sat down obediently. Fenwick heard an exclamation from Welby, and
a murmured remark to Lord Findon; then Welby turned to the painter,
his face aglow.

'I say, I do congratulate you! You _are_ making a success of it! The
whole scheme's delightful. You've got the head admirably.'

'I'm glad you like it,' said Fenwick, rather shortly, ready at once to
suspect a note of patronage in the other's effusion. Welby--a little
checked--returned to the picture, studying it closely, and making a
number of shrewd, or generous comments upon it, gradually quenched,
however, by Fenwick's touchy or ungracious silence. Of course the
picture was good. Fenwick wanted no one to tell him that.

Meanwhile, Lord Findon--though in Fenwick's studio he always behaved
himself with a certain jauntiness, as a man should who has discovered
a genius--was a little discontented.

'It's a fine thing, Eugenie,' he was saying to her, as he helped
her put on her furs, 'but I'm not altogether satisfied. It wants
animation. It's too--too--'

'Too sad?' she asked, quietly.

'Too grave, my dear--too grave. I want your smile.'

Madame de Pastourelles shook her head.

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'I can't go smiling to posterity!' she said; first gaily--then
suddenly her lip quivered.

'Eugenie, darling--for God's sake--'

'I'm all right,' she said, recovering herself instantly. 'Mr. Arthur,
are you coming?'

'One moment,' said Welby; then, turning to Fenwick as the others
approached them, he said, 'Might I make two small criticisms?'

'Of course.'

'The right hand seems to me too large--and the chin wants fining.
Look!' He took a little ivory paper-cutter from his pocket, and
pointed to the line of the chin, with a motion of the head towards
Madame de Pastourelles.

Fenwick looked--and said nothing.

'By George, I think he's right,' said Lord Findon, putting on
spectacles. 'That right hand's certainly too big.'

'In my opinion, it