It would have been the greatest happiness possible for him at that time, could he have shown his father the picture which first made his name known to the world as a painter. His mother had been a querulous invalid most of her life, and had few feelings in common with her son. The father, on the contrary, had been full of hope and trust in Arthur; but he was not to live to see these hopes realised. So that Arthur’s success had been tainted with a bitter sense of disappointment; he had no sympathiser in his triumph--none who knew how hard he had worked--none who knew the gigantic difficulties which he had overcome. The people with whom he mixed knew him since success had come to his brush; and Phœbe Tallant had roused the strong feelings which had lain dormant within him. His love, though excited by a sudden glimpse of the girl’s beauty, had been strengthened by gradual growth, by little graceful acts, indications of sympathy and interest on the part of his pupil. He had struggled against it, and had felt once or twice that he was guilty of a breach of trust in harbouring such a passion for a moment. It was true Mr. Tallant had asked him, as a favour, to give lessons to his daughter. The merchant, as you know, liked to have things which everybody could not have, no matter what he paid for them: and it was with something of this feeling that he had obtained the services of an artist who had suddenly risen above the necessity of teaching. “I did not wish to come here at first,” Arthur would argue to himself. “He almost forced me.” The idea of marrying Miss Tallant had never once occurred to Arthur. In the first place, he regarded his passion as a piece of presumption. He was unworthy in every respect, he thought, of Phœbe’s love; and he never dreamed for a moment that she suspected the real state of his feelings towards her. Although his name was so high in art, Mr. Tallant only looked upon Arthur as a tutor, and he would have regarded an offer of marriage for his daughter from such a source as an insult. But it was not in this mere worldly sense that Arthur felt himself inferior to Phœbe. His love and admiration had made a niche for her high up in his fancy, far beyond his brightest hopes, and he seemed to look up at her and worship, with a fearful, jealous, burning pleasure. Who would have thought that so much passion could have a place behind that calm, thoughtful, and reserved manner of the landscape painter? CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH PAUL SOMERTON ENTERS UPON A DELICATE, DIFFICULT, AND DANGEROUS TASK. Mr. Richard Tallant was a member of several London clubs. The one to which his friend Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs invited him was a third-rate establishment, rapidly degenerating into a mere association of gamblers. The members met in an evening and kept up in appearance mild whist at shilling points; but large bets were made upon the odd tricks, “each and every.”