ht the
picture very clever, and very true."

"I'm delighted! I've always maintained that it was perfectly true. A
friend of mine--why, you remember me speaking of Warburton--Warburton
wanted me to make the Slummer ugly. But why? It's just the prettiest
girls--of that kind--who go slumming nowadays. Still, you are quite
right. I did mean it to be 'successful.' I _had_ to make a success,
that's the fact of the matter. You know what bad times I was having. I
got sick of it, that's the truth. Then, I owed money, and money that
had to be paid back, one way or another. Now I'm out of debt, and see
my way to live and work in decent comfort. And I maintain that I've
done nothing to be ashamed of."

Bertha smiled approvingly.

"I've just finished a portrait--a millionaire's wife, Lady Rockett,"
went on Franks. "Of course it was my Slummer that got me the job. Women
have been raving about that girl's head; and it isn't bad, though I say
it. I had to take a studio at a couple of days' notice--couldn't ask
Lady Rockett to come and sit at that place of mine in Battersea; a
shabby hole. She isn't really anything out of the way, as a pretty
woman; but I've made her--well, you'll see it at some exhibition this
winter, if you care to. Pleased? Isn't she pleased! And her husband,
the podgy old millionaire baronet, used to come every day and stare in
delight. To tell you the truth, I think it's rather a remarkable bit of
painting. I didn't quite know I could turn out anything so _chic_. I
shouldn't be surprised if I make a specialty of women's portraits. How
many men can flatter, and still keep a good likeness? That's what I've
done. But wait till you see the thing."

Bertha was bubbling over with amusement; for, whilst the artist talked,
she thought of Rosamund's farewell entreaty, that she would do her
best, if occasion offered, to strengthen Norbert Franks under his
affliction, even by depreciatory comment on the faithless girl; there
came into her mind, too, those many passages of Rosamund's letters
where Franks was spoken of in terms of profoundest compassion mingled
with dark remorse. Perhaps her smile, which quivered on the verge of
laughter, betrayed the nature of her thought. Of a sudden, Franks
ceased to talk; his countenance changed, overcast with melancholy; and
when, after some moments' silence, Bertha again spoke of the landscape,
he gave only a dull assent to her words.

"And it all comes too late," fell from him, pre