ame of Mr. J. J. Ridley on the
door, and it was J. J.'s hand which I shook (his other being engaged
with a great palette, and a sheaf of painting-brushes) when we entered
the well-known quarters. Clive's picture hung over the mantelpiece,
where his father's head used to hang in our time--a careful and
beautifully executed portrait of the lad in a velvet coat and a Roman
hat, with that golden beard which was sacrificed to the exigencies
of London fashion. I showed Laura the likeness until she could become
acquainted with the original. On her expressing her delight at the
picture, the painter was pleased to say, in his modest blushing way,
that he would be glad to execute my wife's portrait too, nor, as I
think, could any artist find a subject more pleasing.

After admiring others of Mr. Ridley's works, our talk naturally reverted
to his predecessor. Clive had migrated to much more splendid quarters.
Had we not heard? he had become a rich man, a man of fashion. "I fear
he is very lazy about the arts," said J. J., with regret on his
countenance; "though I begged and prayed him to be faithful to his
profession. He would have done very well in it, in portrait-painting
especially. Look here, and here, and here!" said Ridley, producing fine
vigorous sketches of Clive's. "He had the art of seizing the likeness,
and of making all his people look like gentlemen, too. He was improving
every day, when this abominable bank came in the way, and stopped him."

What bank? I did not know the new Indian bank of which the Colonel was
a director. Then, of course, I was aware that the mercantile affair in
question was the Bundelcund Bank, about which the Colonel had written to
me from India more than a year since, announcing that fortunes were to
be made by it, and that he had reserved shares for me in the
company. Laura admired all Clive's sketches, which his affectionate
brother-artist showed to her with the exception of one representing the
reader's humble servant; which, Mrs. Pendennis considered, by no means
did justice to the original.

Bidding adieu to the kind J. J., and leaving him to pursue his art, in
that silent serious way in which he daily laboured at it, we drove to
Fitzroy Square hard by, where I was not displeased to show the good old
hospitable James Binnie the young lady who bore my name. But here, too,
we were disappointed. Placards wafered in the windows announced that
the old house was to let. The woman who kept it b