"No, indeed," he answered, almost sadly; "the error of my life is that I don't work enough. Do you know, Mrs. Champernowne, that since my good fortune I have sometimes wished myself back in my second-floor lodging in Buckingham Street, in the blankest and dreariest interval of my life, only because then at least my mind was free for my work? I fancy that a painter ought to live on the top of a column, like St. Simon Stylites; or if he is a sybarite, and must have shelter from the sun and rain, let him beg a lodging in the octagon tower in Windsor Forest, and spend his life there, with the keeper's children and the deer for his only society. I think the old painters must surely have lived lonely lives, and that the secret of their superiority to us must lie in the fact of their seclusion. We live too much in the world, and have too many distractions. The gleam of sunshine in a landscape, or the smile upon a face which we have been trying vainly to produce for weeks, is just beginning to beam upon our canvas, when a servant opens the door of our painting-room and tells us that Mr. Smith has called, and wants to see us most particularly, and will not detain us a moment. We groan, and go to Mr. Smith, who detains us a quarter of an hour; and when we return to our easel the power is gone out of our brush, the divine light has vanished from our canvas." In speaking of his art the painter had for the moment forgotten his enchantress, but all the old weakness came back to him as Mrs. Champernowne responded, with the low voice that seemed made to express sympathy: "I can fancy how annoyed you must be when commonplace people intrude upon you. I hope you are going to do something great this year. You have brought me a sketch to look at: that is indeed kind. I feel such a privileged person when I see the germ of the masterpiece that is to delight the world." The painter looked at the speaker half incredulously; but the gentle gravity of her manner gave evidence that she had no consciousness of uttering an exaggerated compliment. "My masterpieces are very poor achievements, Mrs. Champernowne," he said; "and I shall begin to doubt the infallibility of your judgment if you show too much indulgence for my shortcomings." "I believe implicitly in the genius of my friends, and I will cherish my faith as long as I live," answered the widow; and then she extended her hand with an impatient gesture. "Let me see your sketch, if you please, Mr. Crawford; and when you have told me all about it, I will make you some tea." There was considerable discussion about the future picture. The subject was Cybele and the infant Jupiter, and the idea was taken from an old play of Thomas Heywood's. Relentless Saturn had commanded the destruction of the child, but the bright smile of the young god disarmed the hand that would have slain him.