uldn't be far off. She's a perfect rack of bones. Lady
Michelmarsh is getting rather pretty--it's wonderful how these dowdy
girls can work up their profiles after a month or two in town. She was a
lump as a bride--a regular lump. You never met anything like it. Aumerle
is talking to her now. He was at the Capitol this afternoon. He begins
to give himself airs. I can't stand him. In fact, I cannot understand
those fellows on my sub-committee. Sometimes they are--if anything--too
civil. A bit servile, in fact. Then they turn out and look as though
they would like to make their teeth meet in my backbone. They sulk, and
whisper in groups, and snicker. I am getting sick of it. I must get rid
of them. By Jove! there's David Rennes, the painter. I thought he was at
Amesbury--with the Carillons, doing Agnes's portrait. It can't be
finished. She said distinctly in her letter this morning--"I may not add
more because I have to give Mr. Rennes a sitting while the light is
good." Where's the letter? I must have left it on the breakfast-table.
Anyhow that is what she said. I'll catch Rennes' eye and have him up. He
is not a bad sort."

The act-drop had now descended, the lights were turned on to their full
power, and Orange, following the direction of Reckage's gaze, saw, in
the last row of the stalls, a large man about nine-and-thirty with an
emotional, nervous face, a heavy beard, and dense black hair. He was
leaning forward, for the seat in front of him was, at the moment,
vacant; his hands were tightly locked, his eyes fixed on the curtain. At
last Reckage's determined stare produced its effect. He moved, glanced
toward the box, and, in response to his lordship's signal, left his
place. Two minutes later Orange heard a tap at the door.

"That's right," said Reckage, as Rennes entered, "take Orange's chair.
He doesn't care a bit about the play, or anything in it. He is going to
get married to-morrow. You know Robert Orange, don't you? You ought to
paint him. Saint Augustine with a future. _Mon devoir, mes livres, et
puis ... et puis, madame, ma femme._"

The Emperor's burgundy, indeed, had not been opened in vain. Rennes
could talk well, sometimes brilliantly, often with originality, and,
with the tact of all highly sensitive beings, he led the conversation
into impersonal themes. He said Miss Carillon's portrait was not yet
finished, but he changed that subject immediately, and the evening,
which had been to Orange a trial of