‘At the present moment, my dear Forster, our friend White is the happiest fellow in all the world, or shall I rather say, in all Bohemia. A hundred successful original plays, a thousand successful adaptations, could not have given him half the pleasure that he feels at the triumph of his charming ward. And well may he be proud. He has hatched at his lonely hearth a phoenix, who rises out of the ashes of our drama, to glorify the stage.’ ‘Ah, but you spoil me,’ said Madeline, well pleased, nevertheless. ‘It is so easy to act; and, besides, who but my dear guardian has taught me the little I know?’ ‘For you it is easy,’ returned Serena, gallantly; ‘ah yes--and it is easy for a flower to look beautiful or for a lark to sing a splendid song. That is all the difference between genius and talent. All you have to do is to be natural, to be your charming self, and the art comes of itself, like the perfume from a rose.’ Madeline looked at Forster and laughed. ‘Mr. Serena would not say that,’ she said, ‘if he knew what a goose I was when I first began. It was in that little theatre at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, and when I went on the people could not hear a word, and I did not know what to do with my hands and feet. The manager said I was the greatest idiot who ever stept upon his stage, and he was right.’ Serena was not to be dismayed. ‘Another proof of genius,’ he cried. ‘Mere talent would have caught all the tricks of the stage, and by means of its affectations and insincerities gained cheap applause at the outset. I have often heard my friend Eugene Aram say that when he began he was so great a stick that no manager would keep him in his theatre. The people laughed at his legs, mimicked his voice. Critics compared him to the Knight of the Rueful Visage. He was invertebrate, inchoate, inarticulate. Look at him now. The people adore his legs and consider his voice music itself. That’s genius, my dear, depend upon it.’ ‘One touch of genius makes amends for much,’ observed Forster quietly. ‘I don’t think Aram is a good actor even now, but he is interesting and intelligent, and his eccentricities have a fascination.’ He added, turning to the picture in the easel, ‘May I ask, is that picture a commission?’ Serena shook his head. ‘If I could afford it,’ he answered, ‘I should say “Yes,” and make a present of it--to the original. But it’s not worthy of her; upon my word it’s not worthy. I’m ashamed of my art when I compare my miserable attempt to the reality.’ ‘It is very like,’ said Forster thoughtfully, studying before the canvas; ‘but too sorrowful; too sorrowful! I should not like to see Miss Hazelmere look like that.’ ‘You see, it’s an “Ophelia,”’ observed Serena apologetically. ‘I would rather you had painted her as smiling and happy. So young a face should not reveal such depths of suffering. There is no hope here, and in Miss Hazelmere’s face all should be hope and happiness.’