ress this winter, and a check for
twenty pounds will be gratefully, etc. etc. etc.!' Can you see me
stooping to that sort of thing? What?"

"I merely threw out the idea as it were tentatively," said Hillary
mildly.

Lucas gave his mustaches a fierce twist and planted himself firmly with
his back to the despised picture.

"It must have been a practical joke of the Devil's that gave Jean that
father and then threw me in her way. Old Heriot Walkingshaw is one of
those men who were created as an antidote to human affection. He stands
between his children's hearts and the sunshine outside like the brick
wall of a prison. His virtues are those of a paperweight. Neither his
daughter nor his fortune are likely to blow away while he is planted on
them; and there his merits end."

"What a dreadful fellow," murmured Hillary.

"And the worst of such fellows is that they are infectious. One can
catch grimness and hardness of soul just as one can catch high spirits
and courage. Bah! I won't think of him any more. I'll have another shot
at this thing."

He took his brush again and faced the canvas. For a few minutes he
labored painfully, and then turned with an exclamation.

"The memory of the old devil has got into my brush--" he began, and then
stopped.

There was a knock upon the studio door.

"Hullo! A patron?" said Hillary.

"A dun more probably," muttered Lucas.

He opened the door and found himself confronting the rubicund
countenance and imposing form of Heriot Walkingshaw. Over the shoulder
of this apparition he looked into the clear eyes of Frank. They were
trying to convey a caution to use whatever tact he possessed; but the
artist was too dumbfounded to heed them.

"Well?" he demanded.

CHAPTER V

"Good-day, Mr. Vernon," said his guest.

He held out his hand, and Lucas mechanically shook it.

"May we come in?" he asked.

"If you want to--certainly," said Lucas; and they entered.

"A fellow-artist, I presume?" inquired Mr. Walkingshaw, glancing at the
pale and pretty youth.

Lucas automatically introduced them.

"Very happy to meet you, Mr. Hillary," said the W.S. genially. "Let me
introduce my son."

Leaving the two young men to entertain each other, he walked aside for a
few paces with his host. His countenance was composed and his air
dignified; though, as he thoughtlessly took Vernon's arm to direct his
partially paralyzed movements, the artist began dimly to apprehend that
no overt