He took some dingy brownish tint from his pallet, and sketched the outline of a woman's form upon the fair white canvas. No map of confused and wavy lines preceded the perfect outline, but every stroke was sharp, precise, and permanent. Where other men indulged in a chalky network of vague curves and undulations, William Crawford drew a firm and lasting outline with his brush. The long labours of years had made him the first of modern draughtsmen, as well as the greatest of modern colourists. But to-day Mr. Crawford's work did not afford him that serene pleasure which it was his wont to feel when he stood before his easel. His brush was less rapid than usual; and after standing for some moments staring at his canvas without seeing it, he turned with an impatient sigh, and began to walk up and down the room. "I do not like thee, Dr. Fell," he muttered, with his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his velvet morning-coat. "I'm not at all clear about the reason, but I do _not_ like thee; and I wish--I wish--my pretty little impertinent Florence were going to marry any one else in this world rather than you, my worthy Fell. But the girls of the present day are past my comprehension--and the women too, for the matter of that. Yes, Mrs. Champernowne, the women too!" The painter sighed more heavily than before as he said this. He took a little note from his waistcoat-pocket presently, and from the half-listless, half unwilling manner in which he unfolded the miniature sheet and glanced at the half-dozen lines inscribed thereon, it was evident that he had read the note before. And yet it was no very important document. It was only a woman's epistle--half of remonstrance, half of invitation. But the tiny sheet of paper was a marvel of delicate emblazonry in the way of crest and arms, monogram and address, and the paper exhaled a rare and subtile perfume, as of myosotis or orange-blossom. "What are you doing, Mr. Crawford," began the painter's correspondent, in a hand which was firm without being masculine, bold and yet neat; a hand which had an originality and character of its own, and which once seen was rarely forgotten or confounded with any other caligraphy,--"what are you doing, and why have I seen neither you nor Florence since my return to town? I am anxious to hear all about your pictures for this season, or to see them; but I shall not come to your painting-room uninvited. And in the mean time you and your daughter know where to find me. "Always truly yours, "GEORGINA CHAMPERNOWNE."