"Why the deuce should you? we haven't a thing in common.”

"Qui s'excuse,' etc. I never did class you with them, even in thought. If you were of their kind, we shouldn't be chums."

"Awful asses they do make of themselves; and it's a pity, for there are some not half bad fellows among them," said Roland, meditatively tickling his nose with a daffodil.

A gleam of queer humour shot through Max's grey-green eyes as he glanced at the man leaning against the window, and looking picturesque enough, with his handsome, rich tinted face, his brown velvet coat, and with the yellow flower in his hand.

"A

"You've got it in you," he said. sympathy with their idiotcy, that only needs

feminine flattery to develop it, and that

won't be wanting.

Oh, Roley!

Oh, Roley! Roley!

why the devil are you so good looking?”

"Draw it mild," said Roland, with a laugh; "the devil may know-I don't."

"The devil does know, my son; better, far better to be ill-featured even as I am, rude in manner as I am, a social snail as I am, than to be debonnaire, sweet-voiced, stuffed full of admirable parts, as thou art, and have the sirens mark thee for their prey."

"They'll find me rather tough," was all Roland vouchsafed in answer to this exhortation. "Hallo! what a sunset," as he

turned to the window. "Look at that bar of gold above those sullen crimson clouds. I must have a try at it, and those dark masses of trees. It's just what I want."

He pulled his tools together and set to work in a quick broad way, with wide sweeps of colour, which caught at least a vivid memory of the burning hues of the western sky. The sketch hardly took

VOL. I.

4

ten minutes, and just as he was finishing, there came a ring at the bell.

"There they are,” he said, springing up and disappearing into the passage, to admit and welcome his friends.

Breynton muttered something, and applied himself vigorously to his picture, with a sudden fit of shyness, and a wish it had been rather a wild beast that was about to invade his lair than a young lady.

He heard Roland's warm greeting outside, and Mr. Goring answering; then he heard another voice, fresh and young, which struck pleasantly on his ear.

"That's a nice voice," he thought, and, turning round, found himself face to face with Evelyn Goring.

He liked her; he liked the fresh, frank face, the sweet eyes, the tender yet firm mouth, and as Roland introduced them, he responded to her greeting cordially enough.

"Take off your hat and cloak, won't you, Evelyn?" said Roland, assisting her to do so as he spoke.

"Oh! there is the Lamia," she said, as her eyes fell on the corner of the room where Roland's picture was. She went up

to it, followed by Roland and her father, while Max stood watching her.

He noticed she did not speak at once,

but stood looking at the painting, till her own face seemed to move in sympathy with the pictured one of Lamia, her eyes to dilate, her lips to part, nay, her very face to pale into likeness with the one she looked at; as Christabel's might have done in gazing at Geraldine's.

"It is much the strongest thing you have done, Roland," said Mr. Goring.

"I've tried to make it so; I don't know how I've succeeded. I'm glad you think it's an advance."

"A big one," answered the elder artist, falling back a little to study the picture.

"I've lost all power of judging of it myself," said Roland.

it looks to other people.

"I can't judge how

Everything one does is so weak compared with the idea. It is only a long striving after what can't be realized;" he spoke rather sadly, almost wearily.

"But you feel that?" said Evelyn, turning to him, a quick colour kindling her cheeks, a sudden beautiful light in her eyes.

Every painter must,” said Roland. “I

mean fellows of my calibre, not giants. It doesn't do to let the idea get possession of one, or one would never do anything; but one must feel it."

"Precious few do," muttered Max to himself. "That's just what makes him of a different sort to Dayrell and his lot, and the girl sees it."