She should be painted just so for the Academy, he was telling himself, seated at her harp, with one little hand showing off the supple wrist, slim fingers, and rosy nails, as it strayed over the strings. But what painter could reproduce her charm, the purity of her eyes and lips, the girlish grace of her form, and especially that light shining round her dilated pupils? Would Millais understand her temperament, and do her justice? Hardly. Sargent might. Yes, it must be painted by Sargent, this picture of a young girl in simple white silk dinner-dress, playing a harp before a hazy background; and the name of the picture should be “Portrait of Viscountess Carthew.” Meanwhile, he was telling her that so far from boring, her talk had interested him greatly. “I am honored by what you say,” he said, “when you tell me I do not seem wholly a stranger to you. It is the more amiable of you to treat me with such gracious cordiality as I am not at all in your own sphere of life, but just what is now called a ‘gentleman farmer,’ and in the old days before the term gentleman was invented, was simply yeoman, a name quite good enough for me. Altogether, a poor, struggling, and undistinguished person, whose parents denied themselves every luxury to give him a college education, by which he had not the wits to profit; just capable of those simple and ineffective qualities of gratitude, affection, and loyalty, and capable of very little else, believe me.” She turned her sweetest smile upon him.