He was engaged as art critic to a very select and enlightened journal, hence his presence to-night, and he made his way at once to the portrait of the "Hon. Amethyst Haredale, by --," and so encountered several of his acquaintance, all looking and criticising, for the picture was much talked of, and was painted by a rising artist. It represented Amethyst in a simple white dress, showing the long soft curves of her neck and arms, her ideal perfection of form and feature. The head was slightly turned over the shoulder, and the eyes looked out at the spectators, with the mystical far-away look which Sylvester had caught in their depths, even in the first freshness of her happy girlhood. It was somewhat faintly coloured, less blooming than the original. "Miss Haredale is more of a flesh and blood beauty than that," said one of the young men; "I don't see that she looks visionary at all, but as if she enjoyed herself immensely." "That is altogether too etherealised," said another, "and misses the young lady of fashion!" "It's a lovely picture," said a third, "like a statue with a soul-- Galatea, possibly." "Yes,--I say, just look,"--said the first. "It's ideal beauty--look at the sweep of her throat and shoulder." And he continued to call attention to the "points" of the picture, with perfectly legitimate and artistic enthusiasm, but to the distraction of Sylvester, who, on being appealed to as "a lucky fellow who knew her at home in the country," replied sharply and untruly, that the picture did not strike him as a good likeness of Miss Haredale at all. "No?" said another voice, as Mr Oliver Carisbrooke came up, and joined the group. "I saw her once last year--though I had not the pleasure of an introduction. I should have thought it like her then. But she is altered. Ah, Mr Sylvester Riddell, let me claim our slight acquaintance. Like every one else, I am admiring your poem." Sylvester ought to have been gratified, and was obliged to be civil; but his nerves were all on edge, and something in Mr Carisbrooke's tone jarred on him. He glanced round at the brilliant throng, noticed the Prime Minister and the leader of the Opposition apparently comparing notes as to each other's portraits, saw the artist, who had painted Miss Haredale, stop and speak to a new novelist, whose book was on every one's table; and then, down the room, behind her mother, came Amethyst herself, flashing as suddenly on his vision as when first he had seen her in the drawing-room at Cleverley, with the jewels on her neck, and the happy light in her eyes.