He was young enough to deprecate the adjective. But despite his wild hair and dynamic neckerchiefs and all the other inevitable little affectations of his temperament and his trade, his good looks were undeniable, and it is possible that he did not often find his sitters unappreciative. But always Laura’s eyes went through him and over him and beyond him to the loggia where Justin lounged or read aloud to them in his shy precise sing-song, while the smoke of his smouldering pipe whorled upwards, to melt into the fine silvery rain that eddied past like ghosts of old Florence, or to the corner where Justin raked his way through Oliver’s stacked canvases and grunted out comments that set Oliver ablaze. And then Laura must jump down to see what it was all about and give her opinion, though Oliver took no notice of it, which nettled her, little as she liked him: and business would be delayed. Mrs. Cloud would come in with a basket and a Murillo’s melon-boy to carry it, and they would all picnic together on the throne. And afterwards, if the sun had come out, Justin would carry them off for a drive and no more painting would be done that day. Nevertheless the picture progressed apace. Mrs. Cloud thought it very pretty and Justin was enthusiastic, though not sufficiently enthusiastic for Oliver, for nobody’s praise seemed to Oliver to do his work quite such discriminating justice as his own. Even Laura would have owned to a real admiration if Oliver had asked her. But Oliver did not ask her. Laura had protected Justin only too well. He had explained to Oliver in all good faith how well she sketched—oh, water-colour, he supposed, he didn’t really know—and Oliver, with all the water-colours of all the daughters and drawing-rooms of England in his mind’s eye, thought himself wise in evading the subject. His Hebe should not trip if he could help it. Naturally Laura observed his manœuvres. If she had had more faith in herself she would have been amused by them; as it was, she was humanly annoyed. She might have made up her mind to forgo her painting: she half believed she had; but it was another thing to be ignored, to sit a week watching some one else handling and mishandling the tools of your trade. Because, whatever conceit Oliver might have of himself, he could not draw. She could see all he did reflected in the mirror beside him and—he could not draw. She conceded him colour, an amazing colour; but he had no sense of discipline, of line ... and, shades of Ingres! how he was mangling the shoulder curve! However—this with a twist of her lip—she supposed he would cover it up nicely with drapery. “Smile, please,” directed Oliver. And then, “Sweeter, my dear girl, sweeter. No, I don’t want your teeth.” “Oh, I can’t sit any more,” said Laura suddenly, and she jumped down in spite of his outcries. “Aren’t you nearly done?”