"It must have been a practical joke of the Devil's that gave Jean that father and then threw me in her way. Old Heriot Walkingshaw is one of those men who were created as an antidote to human affection. He stands between his children's hearts and the sunshine outside like the brick wall of a prison. His virtues are those of a paperweight. Neither his daughter nor his fortune are likely to blow away while he is planted on them; and there his merits end." "What a dreadful fellow," murmured Hillary. "And the worst of such fellows is that they are infectious. One can catch grimness and hardness of soul just as one can catch high spirits and courage. Bah! I won't think of him any more. I'll have another shot at this thing." He took his brush again and faced the canvas. For a few minutes he labored painfully, and then turned with an exclamation. "The memory of the old devil has got into my brush--" he began, and then stopped. There was a knock upon the studio door. "Hullo! A patron?" said Hillary. "A dun more probably," muttered Lucas. He opened the door and found himself confronting the rubicund countenance and imposing form of Heriot Walkingshaw. Over the shoulder of this apparition he looked into the clear eyes of Frank. They were trying to convey a caution to use whatever tact he possessed; but the artist was too dumbfounded to heed them. "Well?" he demanded. CHAPTER V "Good-day, Mr. Vernon," said his guest. He held out his hand, and Lucas mechanically shook it. "May we come in?" he asked. "If you want to--certainly," said Lucas; and they entered. "A fellow-artist, I presume?" inquired Mr. Walkingshaw, glancing at the pale and pretty youth. Lucas automatically introduced them. "Very happy to meet you, Mr. Hillary," said the W.S. genially. "Let me introduce my son." Leaving the two young men to entertain each other, he walked aside for a few paces with his host. His countenance was composed and his air dignified; though, as he thoughtlessly took Vernon's arm to direct his partially paralyzed movements, the artist began dimly to apprehend that no overt outrage was premeditated. "I say," he began in that pleasantly unconventional vein which appeared to afford his vigorous reflections the readiest outlet, "this must seem a bit odd and so on, but why the deuce should we go on quarreling just because we've once begun? We're above that, eh?" "I have no wish--" began the artist. "Exactly, exactly," interrupted his visitor breezily; "we both mean the same thing, so that's all right. Perhaps we misunderstood each other on a previous occasion. Of course perhaps we didn't--we may be a couple of scoundrels just as we imagined, eh? Ha, ha! Still, let's assume there was a little misunderstanding. Now what have you been painting?" The artist's blue eyes looked at him fixedly. "I am addressing the same Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw?" he inquired in a voice compounded of several emotions.