'Appointment? No,' said she, with an air that seemed to imply that an Aylwin, even with Gypsy blood in his veins, in calling upon Art, was conferring upon it a favour to be welcomed at any time. 'I have not seen this portrait yet,' said Sleaford, as the carriage moved off; 'but Cyril Aylwin says it is magnificent, and if anybody knows what's good and what's bad it's Cyril Aylwin.' 'Do you know,' said my mother to me, 'I have taken vastly to this eccentric kinsman of ours? I had really no idea that a bohemian could be so much like a gentleman; but, of course, an Aylwin must always be an Aylwin.' 'Haw, haw!' laughed Sleaford to himself, 'that's good about Cyril Aylwin though--that's dooced good.' 'We shall see Wilderspin's great picture, "Faith and Love," at the same time,' I said, as we approached Chelsea; 'for Wilderspin tells me that he has borrowed it from the owner to make a replica of it.' 'That is very fortunate,' said my mother. 'I have the greatest desire to see this picture and its wonderful predella. Wilderspin is one of the few painters who revert to the predella of the old masters. He is said to combine the colour of him whom he calls "his master" with the draughtsmanship and intellect of Shields, whose stained-glass windows the owner was showing me the other day at Eaton Hall; and do you know, Henry, that the painter of this wonderful "Faith and Love" is never tired of declaring that the subject was inspired by your dear father?' When we reached the studio the servant said that Mr. Wilderspin was much indisposed that afternoon, and was also just getting ready to go to Paris, where he was to join Mr. Cyril in his studio; 'but perhaps he would see us,'--an announcement that brought a severe look to my mother's face, and another half-suppressed 'Haw, haw!' from Sleaford's deep chest. Mounting the broad old staircase, we found ourselves in the studio of the famous spiritualist-painter--one of two studios; for Wilderspin had turned two rooms communicating with each other by folding-doors into a sort of double studio. One of these rooms, which was of moderate size, fronted the north-east, the other faced the south-west. There were (as I soon discovered) easels in both. It was the smaller of these rooms into which we were now shown by the servant. The walls were covered with sketches and drawings in various stages, and photographs of sculpture. 'By Jove, that's dooced like!' said Sleaford, pointing to my mother's portrait, which was standing on the floor, as though just returned from the frame-maker's: 'ask Cyril Aylwin if it ain't when you see him.' It was a truly magnificent painting, but more full of imagination than of actual portraiture. One of the windows was open, and the noise of an anvil from a blacksmith's shop in Maud Street came into the room.