we will call it in public, 'Monmouth the
Trespasser.'"

Gaston did not wince. He had taken all the revenge he needed. The idea
rather pleased him than other wise. He had instincts about art, and he
liked pictures; statuary, poetry, romance; but he had no standards. He
was keen also to see the life of the artist, to touch that aristocracy
more distinguished by mind than manners.

"If that gives 'clearance,' yes. And your debt to me?"

"I owe you nothing. You find your own meaning in my words. I was
railing, you were serious. Do not be serious. Assume it sometimes, if
you will; be amusing mostly. So, you will let me paint you--on your own
horse, eh?"

"That is asking much. Where?"

"Well, a sketch here this afternoon, while the thing is hot--if this
damned headache stops! Then at my studio in London in the spring,
or"--here he laughed--"in Paris. I am modest, you see."

"As you will."

Gaston had had a desire for Paris, and this seemed to give a cue for
going. He had tested London nearly all round. He had yet to be presented
at St. James's, and elected a member of the Trafalgar Club. Certainly he
had not visited the Tower, Windsor Castle, and the Zoo; but that would
only disqualify him in the eyes of a colonial.

His uncle's face flushed slightly. He had not expected such good
fortune. He felt that he could do anything with this romantic figure. He
would do two pictures: Monmouth, and an ancient subject--that legend of
the ancient city of Ys, on the coast of Brittany. He had had it in his
mind for years. He came back and sat down, keen, eager.

"I've a big subject brewing," he said; "better than the Monmouth, though
it is good enough as I shall handle it. It shall be royal, melancholy,
devilish: a splendid bastard with creation against him; the best, most
fascinating subject in English history. The son dead on against the
father--and the uncle!"

He ceased for a minute, fashioning the picture in his mind; his face
pale, but alive with interest, which his enthusiasm made into dignity.
Then he went on:

"But the other: when the king takes up the woman--his mistress--and
rides into the sea with her on his horse, to save the town! By Heaven,
with you to sit, it's my chance! You've got it all there in you--the
immense manner. You, a nineteenth century gentleman, to do this game
of Ridley Court, and paddle round the Row? Not you! You're clever, and
you're crafty, and you've a way with you. But you'll come a cropp