“He ought to be here in a moment now--he’s always so punctual. But my watch is a little fast, I think.” She held it out to me almost gaily, and I was just pretending to compare it with mine, when there was a smart rap on the door and Vard stalked in. There was always a civic majesty in his gait, an air of having just stepped off his pedestal and of dissembling an oration in his umbrella; and that day he surpassed himself. Miss Vard had turned pale at the knock; but the mere sight of him replenished her veins, and if she now avoided my eye, it was in mere pity for my discomfiture. I was in fact the only one of the three who didn’t instantly “play up”; but such virtuosity was inspiring, and by the time Vard had thrown off his coat and dropped into a senatorial pose, I was ready to pitch into my work. I swore I’d do his face then and there; do it as she saw it; she sat close to him, and I had only to glance at her while I painted-- Vard himself was masterly: his talk rattled through my hesitations and embarrassments like a brisk northwester sweeping the dry leaves from its path. Even his daughter showed the sudden brilliance of a lamp from which the shade has been removed. We were all surprisingly vivid--it felt, somehow, as though we were being photographed by flash-light... It was the best sitting we’d ever had--but unfortunately it didn’t last more than ten minutes. It was Vard’s secretary who interrupted us--a slinking chap called Cornley, who burst in, as white as sweetbread, with the face of a depositor who hears his bank has stopped payment. Miss Vard started up as he entered, but caught herself together and dropped back into her chair. Vard, who had taken out a cigarette, held the tip tranquilly to his fusée. “You’re here, thank God!” Cornley cried. “There’s no time to be lost, Mr. Vard. I’ve got a carriage waiting round the corner in Thirteenth Street--” Vard looked at the tip of his cigarette. “A carriage in Thirteenth Street? My good fellow, my own brougham is at the door.” “I know, I know--but _they_‘re there too, sir; or they will be, inside of a minute. For God’s sake, Mr. Vard, don’t trifle!--There’s a way out by Thirteenth Street, I tell you”-- “Bardwell’s myrmidons, eh?” said Vard. “Help me on with my overcoat, Cornley, will you?” Cornley’s teeth chattered. “Mr. Vard, your best friends ... Miss Vard, won’t you speak to your father?” He turned to me haggardly;--“We can get out by the back way?” I nodded. Vard stood towering--in some infernal way he seemed literally to rise to the situation--one hand in the bosom of his coat, in the attitude of patriotism in bronze. I glanced at his daughter: she hung on him with a drowning look. Suddenly she straightened herself; there was something of Vard in the way she faced her fears--a kind of primitive calm we drawing-room folk don’t have. She stepped to him and laid her hand on his arm. The pause hadn’t lasted ten seconds. “Father--” she said.