p to
the proper pitch in his judgments of women. He bowed his head low to
Lady Betty, recognised her as his full intellectual equal--in some
aspects his superior. She was brains and beauty. She was stateliness
itself. She was sunshine and sweetness. What was Miss Robinson by the
side of her? And as he asked himself the question, an impression of Miss
Robinson, as he had recently come upon her suddenly in the streets,
blotted out the more dignified version on his own canvas. How plain and
homely she had seemed in her unobtrusive walking-costume; how
insignificant her whole meek bearing! Yes, that was the true Miss
Robinson; caught photographically in the act of being herself, and
fixed by his vision for always--extinguishing the gorgeously-dressed
person of these incessant festal evenings no less than his own artistic
edition of her.

In no respect could she claim to come up to his measure. He appreciated
all her virtues, recognised her exceptional womanhood: by the side of
Lady Betty she was insipid, _bourgeoise_, monotonously amiable.

Yet he could never arrive at so harsh a verdict without relenting at a
rebound. "It is curious," was his thought, "that in proportion as I get
more friendly with her and really like her, I yet get harder and harder
on her, poor child! She's a jolly good sort! What a decent world it
would be if only there were ever so many more women like her!"

And, by way of atonement, his manner at their next meeting would warm
and soften sensibly; and it came upon him always with a degree of
surprise that, however he might feel about Miss Robinson theoretically,
her actual society was always pleasant and comrade-like.

XI

By mid-December the portrait needed only the finishing touches, and, at
his invitation, several of his artist-friends came to see it.
Commendation of the work was general, combined with a certain admiration
of the unknown sitter. Wyndham could not help feeling that there was
much speculation as to her identity, and he gave himself all the more
credit as an artist for the qualities with which he had endowed her, and
which alone bestowed upon her this interesting individuality.

Wyndham, who made it a point never to have his work interrupted, had so
arranged these visits that none of his friends had stumbled upon the
Robinsons. To the not infrequent query of "Who is she?" he usually
responded, with a half-humorous gleam in his eye, "She might be Brown or
Jones: as a mat