my mission was to paint women, women whom I--being the
son of Mary Wilderspin--love and understand better than other men,
because my soul (once folded in her womb) is purer than other men's
souls.'

'Is not modesty a Gorgio virtue, Lady Sinfi?' murmured Cyril.

'Nothin' like a painter for thinkin' strong beer of hisself,' she
replied; 'but I likes him--oh, I likes him.'

'No man whose soul is stained by fleshly desire shall render in art
all that there is in a truly beautiful woman's face,' said
Wilderspin. 'I worked hard at imaginative painting; I worked for
years and years, Mr. Aylwin, but with scant success. It shames me to
say that I was at last discouraged. Hut, after a time, I began to
feel that the spirit-world was giving me a strength of vision second
only to the Master's own, and a cunning of hand greater than any
vouchsafed to man since the death of Raphael. This was once
stigmatised as egotism; but "Faith and Love," and the predella "Isis
behind the Veil," have told another story. I did not despair, I say;
for I knew the cause of my failure. Two sources of inspiration were
wanting to me--that of a superlative subject and that of a
superlative model. For the first I am indebted to Philip Aylwin; for
the second I am indebted to--'

'A greater still, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court,' interjected
Cyril.

'For the second I'm indebted to my mother. And yet something else was
wanting,' continued Wilderspin, 'to enable me for many months to
concentrate my life upon one work--the self-sacrificing generosity of
such a friend as I think no man ever had before.

'Wilderspin,' said Cyril, rising, 'the Duke of Little Egypt sleeps,
as you see. His Grace of the Pyramids snores, as you hear. The
autobiography of a man of genius is interesting; but I fear that
yours will have to be continued in our next.'

'But Mr. Aylwin wants to hear--'

'He and our other idyllic friends are early to bed and early to rise;
they have, in the morning, trout to catch for breakfast, and we have
a good way to walk to-night.'

'That's just like my friend,' said Wilderspin. 'That's my friend all
over.'

With this they left us, and we betook ourselves to our usual evening
occupations.

Next morning the two painters called upon us. Wilderspin sketched
alone, while Sinfi, Rhona, Cyril, and I went trout-fishing in one of
the numerous brooks.

'What do you think of my friend by this time?' said Cyril to me.

'He is my fifth mystic,'