ourself."

But Will's eye had fallen on a great canvas, showing the portrait of a
brilliant lady who reclined at ease and caressed the head of a great
deer-hound. He went and stood before it.

"Who's that?"

"Lady Caroline--I told you about her--don't you think it's rather good?"

"Yes. And for that very reason I'm afraid it's bad."

The artist laughed.

"That's good satire on the critics. When anything strikes them as
good--by a new man, that is--they're ashamed to say so, just because
they never dare trust their own judgment.--But it _is_ good, Warburton;
uncommonly good. If there's a weak point, it's doggy; I can't come the
Landseer. Still, you can see it's meant for a doggy, eh?"

"I guessed it," replied Will, warming his hands.

"Lady Caroline is superb," went on Franks, standing before the canvas,
head aside and hands in his pocket. "This is my specialty, old
boy--lovely woman made yet lovelier, without loss of likeness. She'll
be the fury of the next Academy.--See that something in the eyes,
Warburton? Don't know how to call it. My enemies call it claptrap. But
they can't do the trick, my boy, they can't do it. They'd give the end
of their noses if they could."

He laughed gaily, boyishly. How well he was looking! Warburton, having
glanced at him, smiled with a surly kindness.

"All your doing, you know," pursued Franks, who had caught the look and
the smile. "You've made me. But for you I should have gone to the
devil. I was saying so yesterday to the Crosses."

"The Crosses?"

Will had sharply turned his head, with a curious surprise.

"Don't you remember the Crosses?" said Franks, smiling with a certain
embarrassment, "Rosamund's friends at Walham Green. I met them by
chance not long ago, and they wanted me to go and see them. The old
lady's a bore, but she can be agreeable when she likes; the girl's
rather clever--does pictures for children's books, you know. She seems
to be getting on better lately. But they are wretchedly poor. I was
saying to them--oh, but that reminds me of something else. You haven't
seen the Pomfrets lately?"

"No."

"Then you don't know that Mr. Elvan's dead?"

"No."

"He died a month ago, over there in the South of France. Rosamund has
gone back to Egypt, to stay with that friend of hers at Cairo. Mrs.
Pomfret hints to me that the girls will have to find a way of earning
their living; Elvan has left practically nothing. I wonder whether--"

He smiled and broke