Flora had accepted an invitation to dine, with her husband, at Mr. W.’s house. It was only a family party, and they were to come early. On their arrival, they found that Mr. W. had been called away on business, but was expected back to dinner. After chatting awhile to Mrs. W. and her daughters, Flora’s attention was strongly directed to an oil-painting which hung above the drawing-room mantelpiece. It was the portrait of an old man, as large as life. The figure was represented in a sitting posture, his head leaning upon his hand, or rather the chin supported in the open palm. The eyes glanced upward with a sarcastic, humorous expression, as if the original were in the act of asking some question which a listener might find it no easy matter to answer; and a smile of mischievous triumph hovered about the mouth. It was an extraordinary countenance. No common every-day face, to which you could point and say, “Does not that put you in mind of Mr. So-and-So?” Memory could supply no duplicate to this picture. It was like but one other face in the world, the one from which it had been faithfully copied. It was originally meant for a handsome face, but the features were exaggerated until they became grotesque and coarse in the extreme, and the thick, bushy, iron-grey hair and whiskers, and clay-coloured complexion, put the finishing strokes to a portrait, which might be considered the very _ideal of ugliness_. While Flora sat looking at the picture, and secretly wondering how any person with such a face could bear to see it transferred to canvas, she was suddenly roused from her reverie by the pressure of a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and a gentleman in a very gruff, but by no means an ill-natured or morose voice, thus addressed her. “Did you ever see such a d——d ugly old fellow in your life before?” “Never,” returned Flora, very innocently. Then, looking up in his face, she cried out with a sudden start, and without the least mental reservation, “It is the picture of yourself!” “Yes, it is my picture. An excellent likeness—half bulldog, half terrier. Judging from that ugly, crabbed old dog over the mantelpiece, what sort of a fellow ought I to be?” He said this with a malicious twinkle in his clear, grey eyes, which glanced like sparks of fire from under his thick bushy eyebrows. “Better than you look,” said Flora, laughing. “But your question is not a fair one, Mr. W.; I was taken by surprise, and you must not press me too hard.” “A clear admission, young lady, that you would rather avoid telling the truth.” “It is the portrait of a plain man.” “Pshaw! You did not qualify it as such in your own mind. Plain—is only one degree worse than good-looking. You thought it—” “Ugly—if you insist upon it.” “Nothing worse?” “Eccentric—pugnacious—satirical.” “God’s truth! But that was not all?” “Good heavens! what am I to say?”