Mr. Adelstone's keen eyes saw the start, and he made a mental note of it. "Ah! it is beautiful weather," said Mr. Etheridge. "It would be a pity to leave Wyndward for London now." "Yes: I shall be more than ever sorry to go now," said Mr. Adelstone, and his glance rested for a moment on Stella's face, but it was quite lost, for Stella's eyes were fixed on the scene beyond the window dreamily. With almost a start she turned to him. "Let me give you some more coffee!" "No, thanks," he said; then, as Stella rose and rang the bell, he walked to the easel. "That will be a beautiful picture, Mr. Etheridge," he said, viewing it with a critical air. "I don't know," said the artist, simply. "You will exhibit it?" "I never exhibit anything," was the quiet reply. "No! I am surprised!" exclaimed the young man, but there was something in the quiet manner of the old man that stopped any further questions. "No," said Mr. Etheridge; "why should I? I have"--and he smiled--"no ambition. Besides I am an old man, I have had my chance; let the young ones take theirs, I leave them room. You are fond of art?" "Very," said Mr. Adelstone. "May I look round?" The old man waved his hand, and took up his brush. Jasper Adelstone wandered round the room, taking up the canvases and examining them; Stella stood at the window humming softly. Suddenly she heard him utter an involuntary exclamation, and turning round saw that he had the portrait of Lord Leycester in his hand. His face was turned toward her, and as she turned quickly, he was in time to catch a sinister frown of dislike, which rested for a moment on his face, but vanished as he raised his eyes and met hers. "Lord Leycester," he said, with a smile and an uprising of the eyebrows. "A remarkable instance of an artist's power." "What do you mean?" asked Stella, quietly, but with lowered eyes. "I mean that it is a fair example of ideality. Mr. Etheridge has painted a likeness of Lord Leycester, and added an ideal poetry of his own." "You mean that it is not like him?" she said. Mr. Etheridge painted on, deaf to both of them. "No," he said, looking at the picture with a cold smile. "It is like him, but it--honors him. It endows him with a poetry which he does not possess." "You know him?" said Stella. "Who does not?" he answered, and his thin lips curled with a smiling sneer. A faint color came into Stella's face, and she raised her eyes for a moment. "What do you mean?" "I mean that Lord Leycester has made himself too famous--I was going to say infamous--" A vivid crimson rushed to her face, and left it pale again the next instant. "Do not," she said, then added quickly, "I mean do not forget that he is not here to defend himself." He looked at her with a sinister scrutiny. "I beg your pardon. I did not know he was a friend of yours," he said. She raised her eyes and looked at him steadily. "Lord Leycester is no friend of mine," she said, quietly. "I am glad of it," he responded.