[Illustration: _Gainsborough._ LEWIS, THE ACTOR.] Clare was glad to see Kitty Fischer. You would hardly guess how pretty that grey dress of hers looked among all the brighter colours there. Lady Crosbie was talking to Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Robert Mayne gave his arm to Miss Ridge. She looked prettier than ever, chief of the roguish school, and Robert Mayne looked amused and comfortable. Her face twinkled when she spoke. Miss Woffington’s manner was decidedly crisp. Something had gone wrong, or perhaps her bodice was too tight? It certainly appeared excruciating. However that may have been she made remarks with edges to them, and when she had spoken, her lips went together as if they closed on a little slice of lemon just inside. Miss Hippesley dropped her blue scarf, and Clare had an opportunity of showing her good manners, returning it to her before any one had seen it fall. For a long minute the quiet, clinched eyes rested on hers, and Clare noticed the pretty hands, as in the picture. “Where did you get your honeysuckle?” she asked; “I’ve never seen it sold in London.” “I got it from the old house in Kensington,” said Miss Hippesley. “Come along, child, with me. I dislike these crowded evenings, when every one comes. I should not have accepted had I known it was going to be so--mixed.” “O, but,” said Clare, who had heard many fragments of conversation, “Mrs. Inchbald says that every one comes when they know Doctor Johnson may be coming, no matter where the house, or what the company.” “Doctor Johnson?” repeated Miss Hippesley. “Ah, that is another matter; I did not know he was expected here to-night. Who brings him, child?” “Mr. Robert Mayne knows him well, I heard Mrs. Inchbald saying, and every one seems so glad and happy. Do you really want to go away?” Miss Hippesley smiled: “I shall not stay very long, I dare say, but, as I am here, I shall do my best to be agreeable.” Clare was afraid she had been forward, but she soon was reassured, for Miss Hippesley smiled on her, as she rose. Seeking out Lady Crosbie, the two withdrew, to a seat somewhat removed, from the company. CHAPTER XI _The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th’ assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering._ CHAUCER. “Whether you like it or not, depends on what you require in a picture.” Robert Mayne was speaking to a circle of friends. “If you like narrative in a picture, then you will like the pictures by David Wilkie, which tell a story, or rehearse a scene. They have life-like imagery, and humour, and a master’s knowledge of composition, in the sense of grouping effects. But poetry? None. I ask for poetry in a picture, just as I require painting in a poem. But of narrative I desire none. Let narrative be for prose.”