"Yes," said her elder brother, "spirited and lifelike. Who is the
painter, Marcia?"

The beauty consulted her catalogue.

"Greenleaf, George Greenleaf."

"A new name. Look at that distant spire," he continued, "faintly showing
among the trees in the background. The water is surprisingly true. A
charming picture. I think I'll buy it."

"How quickly you decide," said the lady, with an air of languor. "The
picture is pretty enough, but you haven't seen the rest of the
collection yet. Gamboge paints lovely landscapes, they say. I wouldn't
be enthusiastic about a picture by an artist one doesn't know anything
about."

A gentleman standing behind a screen near by moved away with a changed
expression and a deepening flush. Another person, an artist evidently,
now accosted the party, addressing them as Mr. and Miss Sandford. After
the usual civilities, he called their attention to the picture before
them.

"We were just admiring it," said Mr. Sandford.

"Do you like it, Mr. Easelmann?" asked the lady.

"Yes, exceedingly."

"Ah! the generosity of a brother artist," replied Miss Sandford.

"No; you do the picture injustice,--and me too, for that matter; for,"
he added, with a laugh, "I am not generally supposed to ruin my friends
by indiscriminate flattery. This young painter has wonderfully improved.
He went up into the country last season, found a picturesque little
village, and has made a portfolio of very striking sketches."

Miss Sandford began to appear interested.

"Quite pwomising," said the Adonis in the baggy coat, silent until now.

"Yes, he has blossomed all at once. He talks of going abroad."

"Bettah stay at home," said the young gentleman, languidly. "I've been
thwough all the gallewies. It's always the same stowy,--always the same
old humbugs to be admired,--always a doosid boah."

"One relief you must have had in the galleries," retorted Easelmann;
"your all-round shirt-collar wouldn't choke you quite so much when your
head was cocked back."

Adonis-in-bag adjusted his polished all-rounder with a delicately gloved
finger, and declared that the painter was "a jol-ly fel-low."

The gentleman who had blushed a moment before, when the picture was
criticized, was still within earshot; he now turned an angry glance upon
the last speaker, and was about to cross the room, when Mr. Easelmann
stopped him.

"With your permission, Miss Sandford," said the painter, nodding
meaningly towards the perso