n such great
work, what is its nature?'

'I am a painter, Mr. Aylwin, and nothing more,' he replied. 'I could
only express Philip Aylwin's ideas by describing my picture and the
predella beneath it. Will you permit me to do so?'

'May I ask you,' I said, 'as a favour to do so?'

Immediately his face became very bright, and into his eyes returned
the far-off look already described.

'I will first take the predella, which represents Isis behind the
Veil,' said he. 'Imagine yourself thousands of years away from this
time. Imagine yourself thousands of miles away, among real
Egyptians.'

'Real 'Gyptians!' cried Sinfi. 'Who says the Romanies ain't real
'Gyptians? Anybody as says my daddy ain't a real 'Gyptian duke'll ha'
to set to with Sinfi Lovell.'

'Nonsense,' said Cyril, smiling, and playing idly with a coral amulet
dangling from Sinfi's neck; 'he's talking about the ancient
Egyptians: Egyptian mummies, you silly Lady Sinfi. You're not a
mummy, are you?'

'Well, no, I ain't a mummy as fur as I knows on,' said Sinfi, only
half-appeased; 'but my daddy's a 'Gyptian duke for all that,--ain't
you, dad?'

'So it seems, Sin,' said Panuel, 'but I ommust begin to wish I
worn't; it makes you feel so blazin' shy bein' a duke all of a
suddent.'

'Dabla!' said the guest Jericho Boswell. 'What, Pan, has she made a
dook on ye?'

The Scollard began to grin.

'Pull that ugly mug o' yourn straight, Jim Herne,' said Sinfi, 'else
I'll come and pull it straight for you.'

Wilderspin took no notice of the interruption, but addressed me as
though no one else were within earshot.

'Imagine yourself standing in an Egyptian city, where innumerable
lamps of every hue are shining. It is one of the great lamp-fetes of
Sais, which all Egypt has come to see. There, in honour of the feast,
sits a tall woman, covered by a veil. But the painting is so
wonderful, Mr. Aylwin, that, though you see a woman's face expressed
behind the veil--though you see the warm flesh-tints and the light of
the eyes through the aerial film--you cannot judge of the character
of the face--you cannot see whether it is that of woman in her noblest,
or woman in her basest, type. The eyes sparkle, but you cannot say
whether they sparkle with malignity or benevolence--whether they are
fired with what Philip Aylwin calls "the love-light of the seventh
heaven," or are threatening with "the hungry flames of the seventh
hell"! There she sits in front of a portico,