zed Kenelm, addressing the picture,
"against the ambition thy fair descendant would awake in me, art thou,
O lovely image! For generations thy beauty lived in this canvas, a thing
of joy, the pride of the race it adorned. Owner after owner said
to admiring guests, 'Yes, a fine portrait, by Lely; she was my
ancestress,--a Fletwode of Fletwode.' Now, lest guests should remember
that a Fletwode married a Travers thou art thrust out of sight; not even
Lely's art can make thee of value, can redeem thine innocent self from
disgrace. And the last of the Fletwodes, doubtless the most ambitious of
all, the most bent on restoring and regilding the old lordly name, dies
a felon; the infamy of one living man is so large that it can blot
out the honour of the dead." He turned his eyes from the smile of
the portrait, entered his own room, and, seating himself by the
writing-table, drew blotting-book and note-paper towards him, took
up the pen, and instead of writing fell into deep revery. There was a
slight frown on his brow, on which frowns were rare. He was very angry
with himself.

"Kenelm," he said, entering into his customary dialogue with that self,
"it becomes you, forsooth, to moralize about the honour of races which
have no affinity with you. Son of Sir Peter Chillingly, look at home.
Are you quite sure that you have not said or done or looked a something
that may bring trouble to the hearth on which you are received as guest?
What right had you to be moaning forth your egotisms, not remembering
that your words fell on compassionate ears, and that such words, heard
at moonlight by a girl whose heart they move to pity, may have dangers
for her peace? Shame on you, Kenelm! shame! knowing too what her
father's wish is; and knowing too that you have not the excuse of
desiring to win that fair creature for yourself. What do you mean,
Kenelm? I don't hear you; speak out. Oh, 'that I am a vain coxcomb to
fancy that she could take a fancy to me:' well, perhaps I am; I hope so
earnestly; and at all events, there has been and shall be no time for
much mischief. We are off to-morrow, Kenelm; bestir yourself and pack
up, write your letters, and then 'put out the light,--put out _the_
light!'"

But this converser with himself did not immediately set to work, as
agreed upon by that twofold one. He rose and walked restlessly to and
fro the floor, stopping ever and anon to look at the pictures on the
walls.

Several of the worst painted