In this fashion had Frank loved Miss Woodville until the day that he had met her face to face in Reynolds's studio. From that moment the young girl replaced the artist in his mind, and he fell to loving her in another guise. Their lengthy chat on the day that Sir Joshua was absent from the studio had for the time being awakened certain hopes in his heart. Why should he not love her? Why should she not grow to regard life with his eyes? Little by little, however, without the slightest event interposing to undeceive him, he realized how poorly calculated were his modest lot and unceasing struggle with poverty to tempt a girl reared amidst adulation and covetousness, amidst circumstances which could not fail to nurture her vanity and her taste for luxury. Many times had she returned to Sir Joshua's, and each time she had addressed him some few rapid words, always with a touch of embarrassment,--annoyed, as he fancied, at the recollection of that hour of freedom and intimacy, desirous perhaps of effacing it from her memory. The thought smote him to the heart, and, though accustomed to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, resignation came hard. Proportionally as the great painter advanced in his work, Frank secretly copied the portrait of Esther. One morning, while busily engaged at his task, the source of mingled pleasure and pain, a light chuckling caused him to start suddenly and turn. "You accursed gypsy!" he cried, turning pale with anger, "who permitted you to enter here? How dare you spy upon me?" It was Rahab, who, together with her numerous vocations, joined that of model, and frequently posed for Sir Joshua. More than once, annoyed at the procrastination or laziness of his fair clients, the painter had set the head of some patrician dame or artist upon Rahab's beautiful body, a genuine living manikin whom he could pose and drape according to his fancy. Rahab had also consented to pose for Frank; and, although she professed disdain for Christians, her hard, ironical eyes sometimes softened as they rested upon the young man. To-day she was not stirred by his anger, but with a shrug of her shoulders remarked:-- "Poor boy! She will never be yours." "Why not? Tell me, since you pretend to read the future." "Because she loves Lord Mowbray." And, turning upon her heel, she danced away, humming some gypsy ditty. That name filled the boy's soul with discouragement. Lord Mowbray! A cold-hearted libertine, the most corrupt, 'twas said, of all the Prince of Wales's new _coterie_. And it was towards him that Esther's heart had been attracted! And the passing sympathy which he had inspired in her was due, perhaps, to his resemblance to that man! His grief was profound; he had experienced nothing akin to it since the day in his babyhood when he had lost his precious goldpiece.