other matron had detected, was eagerly turning
over the contents of a portfolio which she had unearthed from its
lurking-place behind her chair.

Rainham was looking over her shoulder, admiring the charming poise
of the girl's head, and the contours of her wrists and hands, as she
submitted the drawings to his inspection. Charles Sylvester
stationed himself close by, and devoted himself to buttonholing the
American senator, to the obvious discomfort of his victim, whose
knowledge of Pennsylvanian oil-wells was infinitely greater than his
acquaintance with the rudiments of summary jurisdiction, as
practised in his native State, and who, after hazarding a remark to
the effect that Judge Lynch had long since retired from the Bench,
had, as he would have put it, "pretty considerably petered out."

"I hope my daughter isn't indiscreet?" Mrs. Sylvester had hazarded,
after catching Lightmark's eye on its return journey from a glance
in the direction of the little group in the corner; and the young
man had reassured her hastily, before misgivings had time to assail
him, and when they did, he hoped for the best. For a painter's
portfolio is, after all, hardly less confidential than a diary, and
may be on occasion almost as compromising, in spite of the fact that
the records it contains are written in cipher.

The sunlight, mellowed to a dull straw colour by its passage through
London air, slanted in at the window, falling first on Charles
Sylvester's handsome face, with its eminently professional, severely
cut features, and the careful limitation of whisker, which seemed so
completely in harmony with his shaven upper lip and the
unsympathetic scrutiny of his double eyeglass; then, losing some of
its brightness among the little ripples of brown hair which a
gracious Providence had forbidden her hat to conceal, fell like a
halo upon the pale green wall behind Eve's head.

The young artists--the "boys," as they would have called
themselves--were circulating busily with teacups and _petits fours_,
and the chatter of voices bore testimony to the preponderance of the
Bohemian element. It is only the dwellers on the confines who lose
their voices in the Temple of Art--a goddess who, to judge by her
votaries, is not wont to take pleasure in silence.

"Oh," said Eve, in reply to one of Rainham's remarks, "is that
Bordighera? What lovely blue water! and what perfectly delicious
little fishing-boats! I should like to go there. Charle