_Lady, do you know the tune? Ah, we all of us have hummed it! I've an old guitar has thrummed it Under many a changing moon._ THACKERAY. When Frank next saw Sidney Darrell, the latter told him that he had abandoned the idea of the "Cressida," and was painting Phyllis Lorimer in her own character. "Grey gown; Parma violets; grey and purplish background. Shall let Sir Coutts have it, I think," he added; "it will show up better at his place than amid the _profanum vulgus_ of Burlington House." "Mr. Darrell doesn't often paint portraits, does he?" Lucy said, when Jermyn was discussing the matter one evening in Baker Street. "Not often; but those that he has done are among his finest work. That one of poor Lady Watergate for instance--it is Carolus Duran at his very best." "By the bye, what an incongruous friendship it always seems to me--Lord Watergate and Mr. Darrell," said Lucy. "Oh, I don't know that it's much of a friendship," answered Frank. "Lord Watergate often drops in at The Sycamores," put in Phyllis, helping herself from a smart _bonbonniere_ from Charbonnel and Walker's; for Sidney found many indirect means of paying his pretty model; "I think he is such a nice old person." "Old," cried Fanny; "he is not old at all. I looked him out in Mr. Darrell's Peerage. He is thirty-seven, and his name is Ralph." "'I love my love with an R..' You said it just in that way, Fan," laughed Phyllis. "Yes, it is an odd friendship, if one comes to think of it--that big, kind, simple, Lord Watergate, and my elaborate friend, Sidney." "Mr. Darrell is a perfect gentleman," interposed Fan, with dignity. The occasional mornings at The Sycamores, afforded a pleasant break in the monotony of her existence. Darrell treated her with a careful, if ironical politeness, which she accepted in all good faith. "Fan, as they call her, is a fool, but none the worse for that," had been his brief summing up of the poor lady, whom, indeed, he rather liked than otherwise. It was the end of May, and the sittings had been going on in a spasmodic, irregular fashion, throughout the month. Both the girls enjoyed them. Darrell, like the rest of the world, treated Phyllis as a spoilt child; gave her sweets and flowers galore; and what was better, tickets for concerts, galleries, and theatres, of which her sisters also reaped the benefit. Gertrude secretly disliked the whole proceeding, but, aware that she had no reasonable objection to offer, wisely held her peace; telling herself that if one person did not turn her little sister's head, another was sure to do so; and perhaps the sooner she was accustomed to the process the better. "Why won't you come up and see my portrait?" Phyllis had pleaded; "I am going next Sunday, so you can have no excuse." "I shall see it when it is finished," Gertrude had answered.