she was canopied seemed to
be nodding in her eyes.

"Maestro, you are not alone!" she said in a deep, reproachful voice.

"My niece, Mrs. Meadows--Madame Vavasour," said Bentley, ushering in the
new-comer.

Doris turned from her easel and bowed, only to receive a rather scowling
response.

"And your friend?" As he spoke the artist looked blandly at the young
man.

"I brought him to amuse me, Maestro. When I am dull my countenance
changes, and you cannot do it justice. He will talk to me--I shall be
animated--and you will profit."

"Ah, no doubt!" said Bentley, smiling. "And your friend's name?"

"Herbert Dunstable--Honourable Herbert Dunstable!--Signor Bentley," said
Madame Vavasour, advancing with a stately step into the room, and waving
peremptorily to the young man to follow.

Doris sat transfixed and staring. Bentley turned to look at his niece,
and their eyes met--his full of suppressed mirth. The son!--the
unsatisfactory son! Doris remembered that his name was Herbert. In the
train of this third-rate sorceress!

Her thoughts ran excitedly to the distant moors, and that magnificent
lady, with her circle of distinguished persons, holiday-making
statesmen, peers, diplomats, writers, and the like. Here was a humbler
scene! But Doris's fancy at once divined a score of links between it and
the high comedy yonder.

Meanwhile, at the name of Dunstable, the girl accountant in the distance
had also moved sharply, so as to look at the young man. But in the
bustle of Madame Vavasour's entrance, and her passage to the sitter's
chair, the girl's gesture passed unnoticed.

"I'm just worn out, Maestro!" said the model languidly, uplifting a
pair of tragic eyes to the artist. "I sat up half the night writing. I
had a subject which tormented me. But I have done something _splendid_!
Isn't it splendid, Herbert?"

"Ripping!" said the young man, grinning widely.

"Sit down!" said Madame, with a change of tone. And the youth sat down,
on the very low chair to which she pointed him, doing his best to
dispose of his long legs.

"Give me the dog!" she commanded. "You have no idea how to hold
him--poor lamb!"

The dog was handed to her; she took off her enormous hat with many sighs
of fatigue, and then, with the dog on her lap, asked how she was to sit.
Bentley explained that he wished to make a few preliminary sketches of
her head and bust, and proceeded to pose her. She accepted his
directions with a curious pettish