He was a man just bordering on middle age, but his bald head and stooping figure gave him the appearance of the aged. He was bending over a tank, with the sleeves of his little velvet jacket turned up. His dress-coat had been carelessly slung over the back of a chair. The drip of the water into the tank was the only sound to break the silence. Montella for the moment remained inert. At last the Earl turned round. “Oh—ah—Montella,” he said, with his hands still in the water. “Roberts announced you, didn’t he? I was rather—ah—preoccupied. Hope you’ll excuse my shaking hands. Come here and look at—ah—some of my work.” The young man did as he was told, and advanced towards the tank, which proved to be a toning-bath. Amateur photography was the Earl’s latest hobby, and one which for a while absorbed all his time. The photographs floating in the water were principally views of his country seat, but there were also a few portraits amongst them. One, of a child of about six years of age, his lordship picked up and laid in the palm of his hand. “There!” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph. “Can you tell me who that is?” The face in the photograph had moved horribly, and the eyes were doubled. It might have stood for any small boy in the kingdom. Montella hesitated before replying; but at last he received a happy inspiration. “The King!” he exclaimed. “One can scarcely fail to recognise him. It is the King!” “It _is_ the King.” Lord Torrens dipped the print lovingly in the water once more. “I photographed him in the grounds of the palace by special permission of his mother—ah—the Queen-Regent. He was a terrible little rascal to take—moved all over the place; but I’ve got a splendid picture of him, don’t you think so? Of course it wants touching up a bit; you can understand that?” “Oh, certainly,” Montella replied, in good faith. Then he too dipped his hand in the water, and turned over the prints. He knew that the Earl liked to be humoured in his hobby, so he proceeded to ply him with questions relating to the art. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of pleasure. The portrait of a girl floated towards him—a girl with wavy hair, whose tendrils strayed on to a low but intelligent forehead; with large eyes, set somewhat far apart and full of expression; with a well-formed nose, short upper-lip and rounded chin. She was clasping a bunch of roses against her breast, and a garland of the same flowers nestled in her hair. “Lady Patricia,” he said, a softened tone in his voice. “This is the best portrait of her I have ever seen.” The Earl was delighted. “Ah, do you really think so?” he returned. “My daughter is not a good subject for a photograph; rather too fair, and doesn’t look her best in repose. However, I flatter myself that I have succeeded in getting a very happy expression. You must let me give you a copy when there is one finished.”