an obstinate trick of sticking to the thing to which he had once committed himself: it had its merits and its dangers, but it might be called a characteristic.

When the morning came, matters did not go so smoothly as on the preceding day. Jack Hibbert was seized with the fit of remorseful industry which afflicted him on the rarest possible occasions. He came at an unheard-of hour to the studio, and Everitt had all the difficulty in the world to get rid of him. He must ask no end of inconvenient questions—what had become of the Italian, and how bad Everitt filled his place with Miss Lascelles? Then, seized with unusual meekness, he begged advice, and wanted his last picture looked over; next, he was scandalised at hearing that Everitt was going out again for the morning; finally, he besought that he might work in his friend’s studio upon a bit of tapestry which took his fancy. All these attacks had to be parried, the indignant Jack had with immense difficulty to be got out of the way; then Everitt dressed himself as rapidly as he could. He took pains about his lace; a few adroit touches he trusted modified the risk of detection, and might baffle Miss Aitcheson. As cautiously as before he reconnoitred the court, but with Jack about there was more difficulty in escaping, and he had not reached the entrance when he heard a cheerful hail, which was evidently intended for his ears. There was no help for it, Everitt took to his heels and fled, bolting across the road and down a side-street, to the great astonishment of the beholders.

All this had taken time—he was late again, and Miss Lascelles greeted him with a little reproach, which it must be owned did not affect him; for he was merely conscious of an extreme pleasure in finding himself again alone with her. He had been curious enough to know whether his first day’s impressions were altogether correct, whether they depended upon their unexpectedness, or on some merely subtle atmospheric charm. This second day they were stronger. The room seemed to be more delightful, its simple grace more apparent; it improved with familiarity, as the best things improve. And for Miss Lascelles herself, there was a delicate sweet freshness about her, which he did not attempt to analyse or put into words, only he was dimly conscious that it gave him a dreamy pleasure, and that he liked to watch the deft movements of her hand as she painted. He lost himself sufficiently in their contemplation to forget fatigue, and to stand more steadily than on the previous day; but there was something he had to say, and he seized the opportunity of the first rest.

“Signorina!”

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