'An Elegy on a Lady, whom grief for the death of
her betrothed killed.' Its noble verse summons all true maids and
lovers to bear the dead company, in that burial procession which
should have been her bridal triumph. The priests go before,
white-robed; the 'dark-stoled minstrels follow'; then the bier with
the bride:--

And then the maidens in a double row,
Each singing soft and low,
And each on high a torch upstaying:
Unto her lover lead her forth with light,
With music, and with singing, and with praying.

'Here is the finished sketch,' he said, placing it in her hands and
watching her eagerly.

She bent over it in emotion, conscious of that natural delight of
woman when she has fired an artist.

'How fine!--and how you must have worked!'

'Night and day. It possessed me. I didn't want you to see it yet a
while. But you understand?--it is to be romantic--not sentimental.
Strong form. Every figure discriminated, and yet kept subordinate to
the whole. No monotony! Character everywhere--expressing grief--and
longing. An evening light-between sunset and moonrise. The sky
gold--and the torches. Then below--in the crowd, the autumn woods, the
distant River of Death, towards which the procession moves--a massing
of blues and purples'--his hand--pointing--worked rapidly over the
canvas; 'and here, some pale rose, black, emerald green, dimly woven
in--and lastly, the whites of the bride-maidens, and of the bride upon
her bier--towards which, of course, the whole construction mounts.'

'I see!--a sort of Mantegna Triumph--with a difference!'

'The drawing's all right,' said Fenwick, with a long breath, and
a stretch. 'If I can only get the paint as I want it'--he stooped
forward again peering into the canvas--'it's the _handling of the
paint_--that's what excites me! I want to get it broad and pure--no
messing--no working over!--a fine surface!--and yet none of your waxy
prettiness. The forms like Millet--simple--but full of knowledge.
_Ah!_'--he took up a brush, flung it down bitterly, and turned on his
heel--'I can draw!--but why did no one ever teach me to paint?'

Eugenie lifted her eyebrows--amused at the sudden despair. Lord Findon
laughed. He had restrained himself so far with difficulty while these
two romanced; and now, bursting with his tidings, he laid a hand on
Fenwick:--

'Look here, young man--we didn't come just on the loose--to bother
you. Have you heard--?'

Fenwick made a startled mov