"It's no use disguising the fact," the young man said plaintively; "I do not meet their views, and they don't hesitate to let me know that I'm a failure. I ought to be dark and swarthy, like Dumas; or tall, and thin, and wiry, and hook-nosed, and satanic. What would I not give to Madame Rachel if she would make me diabolical for ever! What recompense should I think too much for my tailor if he could build me a coat that would make me look like Mephistopheles! I know a literary man who _is_ like Mephistopheles, and a very handsome fellow he is too; but he writes essays on political economy, and his demoniac appearance is of no use to him." In spite of Mr. Lobyer, poor Philip contrived to speak to Florence before he left the Fountains. "So you are going to be married, Miss Crawford?" he said. "Who told you any thing so absurd?" cried Flo, with a disdainful little laugh. "Every body tells me so." "Then every body is wrong," she answered, with an airy toss of her head; "and even if every body were not as utterly absurd and incorrect as a stupid gossiping every body generally is, I don't see what right you have to catechise me, Mr. Foley." "No; I forgot my place. I forgot that I was only here on sufferance. What has an unsuccessful painter in common with the daughter of the most popular of modern artists? And yet I have heard your father talk of his probation. I have heard him speak of the day when he went to Trafalgar Square, in a fever of hope and expectation, to find the picture he believed in, glimmering through the darkness of the octagon room, an unmeaning daub of red, and blue, and yellow." "It is very good of you to remind me that papa was once a pauper," answered Florence haughtily; and before Philip could say any thing more, she had turned away from him to shake hands with some of her departing guests. After this the young man watched in vain for any opportunity of addressing Florence Crawford. He saw the rooms grow empty, and waited with the dogged determination of outstaying the cub; but the cub made no sign of departure, though the last of the other guests had vanished, and though Flo, who sat in a listless attitude beside a stand of engravings, and yawned audibly more than once. The prince of the cotton country stood by her side, stolid and unabashed, pretending to be interested in the engravings, which she turned with careless hands, and glaring at Mr. Foley in the intervals of his conversation. Florence yawned for the third time, and more audibly than before. Mr. Crawford, who had been walking up and down the room, with his hands in his pockets, staring absently at the pictures, and stopping before one of them every now and then to meditate, with bent head and moody brow roused himself suddenly from his reverie, and looked from the little group by the open portfolio to the spot where Philip Foley stood leaning against a low marble chimneypiece, glum and dejected of aspect.