est Katrina to look at a portrait upon the wall. "It was taken the
year after my marriage," she explained, watching for the increased glow
through the dining-room door which should proclaim to her anxious eyes
the arrival of the astral lamp in its destined place.

"I do not need a portrait, Betty; I have one in my memory," replied Mrs.
Rutherford, graciously. She could not see the picture without her
glasses, but she gazed at the gilt frame with an interested air, looking
at it with her head now a little on one side, now on the other, as if to
get the right light.

"I have never considered this portrait a faithful representation of our
friend," observed Dr. Kirby. He could not see even the frame, but he
surveyed the wall with disapprobation. "It quite fails to give her
vivacity, which is so characteristic a feature. But what painter's
brush, what limner's art, can fix upon canvas that delicate, that, I may
say, intangible charm which belongs to the fairer portion of our
humanity? It is, and must always be, a hopeless task."

Mrs. Rutherford admired the Doctor's way of expressing himself. It was
the fine old style. She herself had kept pace with the new, as she kept
pace with everything; but the old style was more stately, and she had
always preferred it; for one thing, she understood it better. Mrs.
Rutherford liked conversations to have a beginning, a middle, and an
end; the Doctor's conversations, and even his sentences, had all three.

The increased glow now showed itself through the distant door, and Mrs.
Carew moved on; the little company passed down the hall and into the
dining-room, where stood a bountifully decked table with the astral lamp
radiant in the centre, and Pompey, so dignified under his
responsibilities that he actually looked tall, in attendance. It was an
old-fashioned repast; they were all seated round the table as though it
had been a dinner. But the hostess did not place them in the order in
which they had proceeded through the hall; having paid what she
considered due acknowledgment to etiquette, she now arranged them for
the long repast in the way which she thought would please them best,
which is quite another matter. Winthrop found himself between Garda and
Mrs. Harold; Mrs. Harold had upon her left hand Manuel Ruiz, and Garda
upon her right the happy Torres, who, however, in spite of happiness,
looked more rigid and solemn than ever as the soft horizontal light of
the lamp, shining above