“You may laugh, Mr. Tallant,” said Amy, blushing at her own temerity; “but many a free, generous-minded man has been brought to misery by the companionship of a bad man, professing friendship which he never felt or understood.” “That reminds me,” said Mr. Tallant; “the same fellow who told me that he had heard I gambled, told me that hard things were said of another man whom I meet sometimes. Of course I cannot be answerable for the character of every fellow I meet; it is all envy, hatred, and malice.” “Bad company,” said Amy, “is like a nail driven into a post, which after the first and second blow may be drawn out with little difficulty; but being once driven up to the head, the pincers cannot take hold to draw it out, but which can only be done by the destruction of the wood. We had to turn that sentence into hexameters the other day by order of Signor De Maury, our linguistic master,” said Amy; “I think it rather a fine simile.” “Indeed? yes, perhaps it is,” said Mr. Richard Tallant, thinking to himself that the girl was “infernally impudent.” By this time they had reached the last coppice, prior to coming out into the open before Barton Hall; and at a picturesque bend in the somewhat intricate footpath, they came suddenly upon Mr. Phillips, the artist, who was sitting quietly contemplating a half-sketched-in clump of spring foliage, pierced with a broad ray of sunlight. The artist’s long black hair was thrown back, his hat lying on the ground, and his sharply cut features were lit up with a smile of satisfaction. He had worked at this little sketch for many days, and had only just accomplished what he considered to be a reasonable approach to the production of a peculiar effect of sunlight upon firs and larches and silver beech, with a background of rock and sky, in early spring. For a moment he sat unconscious of the audience which stood before him--one a lady, who had to make an effort to hide her agitation. “Hope you’re satisfied, old boy,” said Mr. Tallant, approaching the artist. “Good-morning--good-morning, ladies,” said Mr. Phillips in his deep mellow voice, and advancing to meet the party. “Ah! deuced good--capital,” said Richard, standing in front of the easel. “Do you think so?” said the artist. “What do you think, Miss Tallant? I have been working at this poor trifle of study, I am ashamed to say how long.” “I am sure you need not be ashamed,” said Miss Tallant, quietly. “You have been highly successful, as you always are,” said Miss Somerton.