"Or in France either," returned Madame de Castella "Believe me, Mr. St. John, no one can appreciate the Spanish school of painting until they obtain a knowledge of the collections in Spain." "You are quite right," he answered. "Have you been in Spain?" "I believe I have been everywhere, so far as Europe goes, where there is a gallery of paintings to be seen." "And do you like the Spanish school?" "Pretty well." "Only that? I am sorry to hear you say so." "Spanish painting has a character peculiar to itself," resumed Mr. St. John. "At least, I have always thought so. The artists were not free: they were compelled to bend to those laws that restricted their pencils to delineations of religious subjects. Had they been at liberty to exercise their genius unfettered, they would have left more valuable mementos behind them. Imagination is the very life and soul of painting; curb that, and you can expect but little." "I suppose you are right," said Madame de Castella. Madame Baret came in, and joined the party. She was related to the Count d'Estival. Some years before, her husband, who was then a small proprietor, risked his money in a speculation, and was ruined. M. d'Estival stepped in, and offered them an asylum with him. They accepted it, upon condition that they should be permitted to be useful. Madame became the active mistress and manager of the house, her husband the superintendent of the land and farm. But though they did make themselves useful, both indoors and out, somewhat after the manner of upper servants, they were gentlepeople still, and received due consideration and respect. "Who is that painting by?" inquired Madame de Castella, stopping before a group of portraits. "It is a copy of one of Van Dyck's," said Mr. St. John. "There hangs the original. But it is admirably executed." "It is, indeed," replied Madame de Castella. "To my unpractised eye, it looks equal to the original." "Almost," assented Mr. St. John. "Except in the transparency of the skin, and there Van Dyck cannot be rivalled." "Whose is that gorgeous landscape?" "An original of Claude Lorraine's." "To be sure. I might have told it by the colouring. And that next, Mr. St. John?" "One of Correggio's." "I don't much admire it." "It is cold, but faultless," was Mr. St. John's reply, "as Correggio's productions generally are." "Do you paint portraits from life, Mr. St. John?" "I have done so; and would again, if I found a subject to my taste." "What better study, for a fine old head, than your good hostess, here?" rejoined Madame de Castella, lowering her voice. St. John laughed; a pleasant laugh. To Mary Carr's ear it seemed to imply that he did not care to paint old women. "Will you permit me to try my hand at yours?" he said to Madame de Castella. "No, indeed, thank you," she answered. "Mine has already been taken three times, and I don't like the fatigue of sitting."