er at
this as sure as I shall paint two big pictures--if you'll stand to your
word."

"We need not discuss my position here. I am in my proper place--in my
father's home. But for the paintings and Paris, as you please."

"That is sensible--Paris is sensible; for you ought to see it right, and
I'll show you what half the world never see, and wouldn't appreciate if
they did. You've got that old, barbaric taste, romance, and you'll find
your metier in Paris."

Gaston now knew the most interesting side of his uncle's
character--which few people ever saw, and they mostly women who came to
wish they had never felt the force of that occasional enthusiasm. He had
been in the National Gallery several times, and over and over again
he had visited the picture places in Bond Street as he passed; but he
wanted to get behind art life, to dig out the heart of it.

CHAPTER VI. WHICH TELLS OF STRANGE ENCOUNTERS

A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of the
grounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracen
would remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gaston could
scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possible in
the time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with a nod,
rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor.
At the top he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscape
struck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there--not a suburban
villa, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, but
just the sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing,
the soft smell of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly,
heavily clacking.

As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he out
of place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himself
and had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactly
as though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true that
he had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished.
There was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing--a part of
his dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity where
there were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore, a
carefulness which in him was elegant artifice.

It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion of
gentle people when with them. But it was e