I replied; 'I wonder what the sixth will be
like. Is he really as great a painter as he takes himself to he, or
does his art begin and end with flowery words?'

'I believe,' said Cyril, pointing across to where Wilderspin sat at
work, 'that the strange creature under that white umbrella is the
greatest artistic genius now living. The death of his mother by
starvation has turned his head, poor fellow, but turned it to good
purpose: "Faith and Love" is the greatest modern picture in Europe.
To be sure, he has the advantage of painting from the finest model
ever seen, the lovely, if rather stupid, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose
Court, whom he monopolises.'

Cyril had already, during the morning, told me that my mother, who
was much out of health, was now staying in London, where he had for
the first time in his life met her at Lord Sleaford's house.
Notwithstanding their differences of opinion, my mother and he
seemed to have formed a mutual liking. He also told me that my uncle
Cecil Aylwin of Alvanley (who in this narrative must not, of course,
be confounded with another important relative, Henry Aylwin, Earl of
Aylwin) having just died and left me the bulk of his property, I had
been in much request. I consequently determined to start for London
on the following day, leaving my waggon in charge of Sinfi, who was
to sit to Wilderspin in the open air.

During this conversation Sinfi was absorbed in her fishing, and
wandered away up the brook, and I could see that Cyril's eyes were
following her with great admiration.

Turning to me and looking at me, he said, 'Lucky dog!' and then,
looking again across at Sinfi, he said, 'The finest girl in England.'

V

HAROUN-AL-RASCHID THE PAINTER

I

On reaching London and finding that it was necessary I should remain
there for some little time, I wrote to Cyril to say so, sending some
messages to Sinfi and her father about my own living-waggon.

My mother was now staying at my aunt's house, whither I went to call
upon her shortly after my arrival in town.

Our meeting was a constrained and painful one. It was my mother's
cruelty to Winifred that had, in my view, completely ruined two
lives. I did not know then what an awful struggle was going on in her
own breast between her pride and her remorse for having driven Winnie
away, to be lost in Wales. Afterwards her sad case taught me that
among all the agents of soul-torture that have ever stung mankind to
madness the sco