Jean also saw the dawn of hope. "May I inquire what you are talking about?" demanded her father. "Miss Walkingshaw has promised to sit to me for her portrait," explained the artist. "We were trying one or two positions." Mr. Walkingshaw breathed somewhat heavily, but said nothing. Jean's color began to subside. "Mr. Vernon was arranging my hands," she contributed towards his enlightenment. Mr. Vernon was now gazing on her in the attitude which he had learnt from plays and poems conveyed to the laity the best conception of artistic fervor. "The head a little more to the right!" he exclaimed. "The hands crossed! A smile, please! Now, sir, how do you like that?" Mr. Walkingshaw ignored the question altogether and addressed his daughter. "If Mr. Vernon can give any reasons why he should paint your portrait, I think he had better give them to me before the matter goes further." His formidable eye supplied the addendum, "And you leave the room!" She obeyed, and the painter was left with this singularly favorable opportunity of obtaining a commission at last. CHAPTER III "Well, sir?" said Mr. Walkingshaw. Lucas was unused to the subtleties of diplomacy, but it seemed to him an evident case for tact. "What do you think about it yourself?" he began cautiously. "I think," replied the W.S., "that you'd be better back in England." His eye again spoke for him, and this time it said, "There is no further use in attempting to deceive me." The artist took the hint. His strong, pleasant face became a mirror reflecting the very truth; his blue eyes were filled with a light brighter even than the inspiration of art; his mellow voice burst out abruptly-- "I love Jean!" The effect was rather like discharging a cannon and bringing down a scrap of plaster. "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "You mean my daughter?" "I should think I do!" "I merely asked for information, Mr. Vernon." "Then I can guarantee your information!" Lucas smiled frankly, but he might as well have smiled at the hat-rack in the hall. "I'm quite aware you don't think me good enough for her--and I agree with you. But if it comes to that, who is? You may say my name's neither Turner nor Rubens; you may think it's like my dashed impudence asking you to let me make a short cut to heaven across your hearth--" It was at this point that Mr. Walkingshaw discharged his ordnance. "What is your income?" he inquired coldly. His aim was more accurate. The artist descended to earth with a thud. "My _income_?" he gasped. "Your income," repeated the bombardier. The artist ran his fingers convulsively through his hair. "Now, what the deuce should I put it at?" "An approximately correct figure," suggested Mr. Walkingshaw. "To tell you the truth, I haven't the least idea." "A thousand?" "Oh, good God, no!" "A hundred?" "Oh, more than that." "Can't you suggest a figure yourself?"