Mr. Charles Sandford, meanwhile, who was cultivating the sublime art of indifference, the distinguishing feature and the ideal of his tribe, only tapped his boot with his slender ratan, and then smoothed his silky moustaches. Greenleaf briefly expressed his thanks for the invitation, and, when the family had gone, turned to his friend with an inquiring look. "Famous, my boy!" said Easelmann. "Sandford knows something about pictures, though rather stingy in patronage; and he is evidently impressed. The beauty, Marcia, is not a judge, but she is a valuable friend,--now that you are recognized. The widow is a most charming person. Charles, a puppy, as every young man of fashion thinks he must be for a year or two, but harmless and good-natured. The friendship of the family will be of service to you." "But Marcia, as you call her, was depreciating my picture not a minute before you called me." "Precisely, my dear fellow; but she didn't know who had painted it, and, moreover, she hadn't seen you." Greenleaf blushed again. "Don't color up that way; save your vermilion for your canvas. You _are_ good-looking; and the beauty desires the homage of every handsome man, especially if he is likely to be a lion." "A lion! a painter of landscapes a lion! Besides, I am no gallant. I never learned the art of carrying a lady's fan." "I hope not; and for that very reason you are the proper subject for her. Your simplicity and frankness are all the more charming to a woman who needs new sensations. Probably she is tired of her _blase_ and wary admirers just now. She will capture you, and I shall see a new and obsequious slave." Greenleaf attempted to speak, but could not get in a word. "I felicitate you," continued Easelmann. "You will have a valuable experience, at any rate. To-morrow or next day we will call upon them. Good morning!" Greenleaf returned his friend's farewell; then walking to a window, he took out a miniature. It was the picture of a young and beautiful girl. The calm eyes looked out upon him trustfully; the smile upon the mouth had never seemed so lovely. He thought of the proud, dazzling coquette, and then looked upon the image of the tender, earnest, truthful face before him. As he looked, he smiled at his friend's prophecy. "This is my talisman," he said; and he raised the picture to his lips. * * * * * An evening or two later, as Easelmann was putting his brushes into water, Greenleaf came into his studio. The cloud-compelling meerschaums were produced, and they sat in high-backed chairs, watching the thin wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards to the skylight. The sale of pictures had taken place, and the prices, though not high enough to make the fortunes of the artists, were yet reasonably remunerative; the pictures were esteemed almost as highly, Easelmann thought, as the decorative sketches in an omnibus. "And did Sandford buy your picture, Greenleaf?"