The beauty of Lady Persimmon, as the world knows, had caught roving royal eyes; and she was at the height of her vogue, gathering from this strange source of public esteem such homage as is given to the toy of a court. She was, in very truth, exquisite as a butterfly. “Ah,” said she with languid, lazy accent that caressed the words she uttered, “I should love to live in Bohemia.” And she added with a pout: “Society is such a weary round--and so spiteful!” Paul Pangbutt shrugged his shoulders: “A part of the price you must pay for being a beautiful woman, my dear lady,” he said--and he went back to his painting. “What? Spite!” she asked, the handsome brows meeting in questioning furrows. Her lips were very red--_half open with delicious whisperings of scarlet sin_, a minor poet had it--so she would keep them half open, though she most pronouncedly estranged herself from the minor poet for close upon a fortnight in display of her deep resentment. Thus, too, she was now being limned. Pangbutt painted the corner of her pathetic mouth: “Spite is the unwitting tribute of a petty mind,” he pronounced. “I don’t see that that is any excuse for it,” she said smartly. Pangbutt stood back; and he uttered a light laugh: “The world is one vast engine of criticism,” he said. “A man is not a critic because he writes for a newspaper. That act is generally the mark of his incapacity. We are all discriminators. Bless my soul--_conversation_ is criticism more than half the time! And why not?” “That’s rather alarming, isn’t it?” she cooed. “Fancy if we criticised our friends!” “Exactly what you do!” he pshawed. “You give your friendship: it is criticism in action. On others you turn a cold shoulder. You have said no word--but you have passed criticism. You have--well!--you have turned a very pretty but cruel back--uttered a more brutal verdict than tongue ever spoke.” She laughed lightly: “You’re a charming colourist, Paul--but all your craft cannot whitewash spite,” she said. “No, no,” said he. “I only say that criticism has its shabby side. Spite is criticism gone sour.... But, tsha! I don’t believe there is all this venom in the world.” He laid down his palette: “It’s a very comfortable old world.... I’m afraid the light has gone.” He pushed the easel aside, and came to where she sat. He set a foot on the throne, and leaned his elbow upon his knee, gazing into her eyes: “The light has gone, and your great beauty calls for all the light--it dares the sun’s severest cross-examination.” He held out his hand and she placed her slender fingers in his; she felt his admiring regard upon her. He pressed her fingers: