"And the best point about it is, that it's really _like_ Elsie," she concluded, with an air of paying an exceptional tribute to his skill. "Portraits so seldom _are_ like people. Haven't you noticed it? That's why I generally prefer photographs. But your picture is different. There are only two things about it that don't _quite_ please me." She paused, eyeing the canvas with her head on one side; and Maurice, who was irresistibly reminded of a bird contemplating a worm, wondered idly what was coming in the way of criticism. "I wish you had allowed her to wear something _smarter_ than that limp white silk; and I think she looks much too unpractical, day-dreaming on a verandah railing at that hour of the morning! But then, Elsie _is_ rather unpractical; or would be," she added quickly, "if I didn't insist on her helping me with the house. That's where moat Anglo-Indian mothers make such a mistake. But _I_ always say it is a mother's duty to have _some_ consideration for her girl's future husband!" And she smiled confidentially upon the aspirant at her side. But Maurice, absorbed in critical appraisement of his own skill in rendering the luminous quality of Elsie's eyes, missed the smile; missed also most of the interesting disquisition on her education. "Yes, yes,--no doubt," he agreed with vague politeness, and Mrs Mayhew opened her round eyes. But the direction of his gaze was excuse enough for any breach of manners; and she returned to the charge undismayed, approaching her subject this time from a less prosaic point of view. "Really, Mr Maurice, I never knew till now that I _had_ such a pretty daughter! The whole effect is so charming, that I begin to think you must have flattered her!" she remarked archly; and Maurice fell headlong into the trap. "Flattered her? _Mon Dieu_, no! Nature has taken care to make that impossible. For, although she falls short of true beauty, she has such delicacy of outline, of colouring, an atmosphere so ethereal, that one wants a brush of gossamer dipped in moonlight, not coarse canvas, camel's hair, and oils, if one is even to do her justice. Some day I must try water-colours, or pastels. _Sans doute ca ira mieux_." He was off on his Pegasus now, far above Mrs Mayhew's bewildered head. "She would make a divine Undine--moonlight, and overhanging trees. The face and figure dimly seen through a veil of water weeds.--But where is she, then?" he broke off, falling suddenly to earth like a rocket. "May one see her this afternoon? I want to hear from herself that she is satisfied." Mrs Mayhew smiled and nodded, a world of comprehension in her eyes. "Yes, yes, I can quite believe _that_. I will tell her you are here. She looked rather a wisp after the dance last night, so I sent her up to rest, for the sake of her complexion! But, of _course_, she must come down now. You will find her more entertaining than '_la petite mere_,' She has taken to calling me that lately!"