So I was painted wonderfully as Una, making my own “stole” from one of Patty’s bedgowns, and glorying, out of my very shamefacedness, to feed the inspiration, while it lasted, of this impassioned art. Now, for days it had wrought without slackening, so that it was an offence to me to find it suddenly become, it seemed, without apparent cause or reason, out of tune with its subject. He worked fitfully, dully, almost, as it were, disregarding my presence, and drawling commonplaces the while to Gogo, who had returned to his pestle and mortar, and was grinding away sullenly. “Gogo,” he yawned presently, after an idle, preoccupied silence, “which would you rather marry, a woman of wit or virtue?” “Neither, you blattering genius!” cried the other, turning round with such an instant roar that I was almost frightened off my perch. The master, accustomed to his strange fellow’s moods, only laughed, and leaned back indolent. “Why, you old dear?” said he. Gogo thundered. “She’s a rotten fish at best, shining the more the more corrupt she is.” “But if she don’t shine?” said de Crespigny coolly. “Then she’s a dull fish,” said Gogo, “but a fish still.” The other mused, and sniggered. “--Who’s for ever playing to be caught,” added Gogo, grumbling. “She loves the angle. Play her what you like, man, only throw her back when hooked.” “Mr. Gogo!” I exclaimed. “Ay, Mistress Una,” said he, “you’re all pretty players, from miss to my lady dowager. Don’t tell me. You all love to excite the emotions you don’t understand, and then off with you from the stage, sweet ethereals, to the suppers of steak and porter which you do, while Jack and my lord are wetting their pillows with tears over your sensibility.” “Thank you,” I said, rising, highly offended. “As I, for one, am not playing to be hooked, I’ll take your warning in time.” I had expected de Crespigny to strike in, in angry protest over his servant’s insolence; but, to my astonishment, he did not move or interfere. A little pregnant silence ensued, and the tears were already rising to my eyes, when, to my horror, I heard madam’s voice at the door. “De Crespigny,” she said, “may I come in for once?” He stumbled to his feet, and stood paralysed a moment, before he answered-- “A minute. You know the conditions: I must hide it away, and then”-- When she entered a little later, there was he standing to receive her with a spasmodic grin; his easel was empty, Gogo pounded at his mortar, and I--I was shrunk behind the curtain, peeping in a very shiver of terror. She looked at him with a little shaky propitiating smile. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. She tried to speak, and could not. He understood so far, the poor clown, and bade his servant withdraw. When they were alone, she turned upon him with a little appealing motion of her hands. “Am I never to be allowed to see it?” she asked. He frowned, and bit his trembling lip.