The first was something like that picture which appeared in the Strand shops some years afterwards. Mr. Phillips had drawn the face full, and thrown the hair backwards in wavy folds. The lips were parted, and the eyes looked you in the face, full of hope and trust, and innocence. Lionel laid this first study down, after a hasty glance or two at it, and then fairly “devoured” the second one. A smothered sigh of relief escaped from Arthur as he noticed this, and a happy smile moved his lips as he watched the expression of approval which lit up Lionel’s face whilst gazing at the darker beauty. “By Jove,” said Lionel, after a long pause, “it is exquisite! What a head! Talk of blood, why this head has all the character of a high-bred racehorse.” Arthur smiled, and puffed out a long thin wreath of smoke. “What eyes! what a neck! And the hair bound tightly to the head, setting off those little ears! And the chin!--why, all the lines of beauty are exhausted here,” Lionel went on; and Arthur almost trembled with delight. “Give me your hand,” he said at length, no longer able to control his feelings. “Give me your hand, Lionel Hammerton.” “With all my heart,” said Lionel, looking as much astonished as he had previously been delighted. “But what, in the name of all the Arts and Sciences, is the matter with you? I’m not praising the painter, but the subject. You have not suddenly become vain, Arthur?” “No, no,” said the artist, pushing back his long black hair; “it is because you are praising the subject that I am delighted, Lionel. You love Amy Somerton.” “Stop, stop, not so fast, friend Arthur,” said Lionel, colouring a little, and appearing still more surprised at the artist’s unusual excitement. “If you are in love at all, it is not with--with Miss Tallant?” Arthur went on, his big piercing eyes fixed intently on his friend. “Oh, oh!” said Lionel, putting his hand upon Arthur’s shoulder, and laying down Amy Somerton’s portrait. “Oh, oh! Have I caught you in your own trap, my poor little friend?” said Lionel. “It is _you_ who are in love! Nay, man, don’t look so woe-begone about it.” “And you?” said Arthur, hanging his head like a schoolboy. “May be some day, friend Arthur,” said Lionel; “but _not_ with Miss Tallant--_not_ with Miss Tallant.” “Thank God for that!” said the artist, sitting down and fixing his eyes upon the distant hills, which the sun was making golden. Lionel’s manner of meeting Arthur’s half confession of love for Miss Tallant and fear of rivalry, did not for the moment please the artist, whose sensitive nature revolted at the apparently cool and critical treatment of his friend. But when young Hammerton said, “Arthur, my boy, don’t fear me, go in and win,” the artist forgot his momentary displeasure, and smiled half sadly, half comically, at his friend; and then told him how he had been unable to struggle against his admiration for Miss Tallant, and how it had ripened into love.