“But your mother would not approve?” “Not at all. She would be enchanted; but I am going to India immediately.” “To India?” he repeated, after an expressively long pause. “Yes; my aunt and uncle have invited one of us--it was most unexpected--and I am going.” Mr. Crabbe looked grave; then he gave a sort of awkward laugh, and said-- “Well, Miss Gordon, I enroll myself among the number of friends who deeply deplore your departure. I am extremely sorry--indeed, I have a double reason for regret, for I shall never find such a Rowena!” “And I am extremely sorry too. There will be no one in India who will want to paint my picture.” “I am not so sure of that. A young fellow, a friend of mine, went out there last October globe-trotting. He is the cleverest portrait painter I know, though he calls himself an amateur and only paints for amusement, and in interludes of hunting and polo-playing. He has not to work for his daily bread, like the rest of us; but, if he had to do so, he would make his fortune if he studied and put his shoulder to the wheel. He has a genius for catching a true likeness, a natural attitude, a characteristic expression, and he does it all so easily and so quickly. A few rapid dashes, and the canvas seems to _live_. It is a pity he does not take to our profession seriously and study; but his uncle abhors ‘painting chaps,’ as he calls them; and his uncle, whose heir he is, is a millionaire.” “How nice! And what is the name of this fortunate young man?” “Mark Jervis.” “I must try and remember. Perhaps I may come across him, and he may paint my picture; but it will be nothing in comparison to having it done by _you_ and hung in the Royal Academy.” She turned her face upon her visitor with an expression of dreamy ecstasy. A delicate colour, a brilliant sparkle in her eyes, the becoming background of a red lamp-shade, which set off her perfect profile, all combined to heighten the effect of Fairy’s transcendent beauty; and Oscar Crabbe frankly assured himself that he was then and there gazing upon the face of the most lovely girl in England. As he gazed, he lost his head, and stammered out rapturously-- “Oh, if I could only paint you as you are now, my reputation would be assured; you would make me famous!” “You mean that you would make _me_ famous,” she returned, dropping her eyes bashfully. “Do you know that you almost tempt me to abandon India and remain at home?” “I wish you would. You are of far too delicate clay for the fierce tropical sun, and India plays the devil--I mean,” picking himself up, “it is the grave of beauty. If anything should happen to prevent your carrying out your trip, will you let me know without fail?” “You may be certain that I shall.”