The artist talked about high art, ideality, and poetic licence. He thought certain Dante pictures too literal in their interpretation of the horrors of the “Inferno,” and he called some of the sketches morbid and sensational. He was in raptures with half-a-dozen pictures in a work of fairy fiction; but he was thinking all the while a great deal more of Phœbe’s beauty than of anything else. Mr. Richard Tallant could not help noticing the remarkable contrast between the artist and his sister as they stood together looking at the new books. The fair _spirituelle_ face of the woman set in that sunny halo of soft brown hair; and the sharp and highly intellectual features of the artist intensified by the long black hair which fell upon the somewhat rounded shoulders. It brought to his mind for a moment a famous pre-Raphaelite picture; but his thoughts wandered away instantly to Amy Somerton, who was softly touching out the melody of “Life let us Cherish,” from amongst a wealth of unobtrusive variations which Arabella Goddard has since made so pleasantly familiar. “And she loves young Hammerton, does she?” he thought, whilst he smoked and nursed his left leg, and occasionally stroked his full black moustache. “Love’s the probable successor to an earldom. She aims high. Well, so be it. The fellow’s good-looking and conceited: he’ll humour the lady’s fancy, of course. He can’t marry her; that’s out of the question. She evidently thinks I’m a blackguard--that’s not so pleasant; but Master Paul shall pay for that.” The next moment the Hon. Lionel Hammerton was announced, whereupon Miss Somerton rose from the piano, and the new comer was shown into the library. “Who would have thought of seeing you?” said Mr. Tallant, throwing his cigar at a blackbird (which was hopping about on the lawn), and coming forward to greet Mr. Hammerton, who was receiving a cordial welcome from Miss Tallant. “How do you do?” said the young aristocrat, extending his hand. “Phillips, my friend, and how are you? I’m delighted to see you.” “The delight is mutual,” said Arthur, shaking Mr. Hammerton heartily by the hand. “I saw one of your last pictures at Earl Stanton’s place in town three days ago,” said Mr. Hammerton, “with three wonderful connoisseurs going frantic about it. The Earl had given a hundred and fifty guineas for it, they said. What do you think it was, Miss Tallant?” “A landscape?” said Phœbe, with an inquiring smile. “Well, I suppose it might be called a landscape. It was a bit of the lake yonder, in the corner of the park, with a clump of trees at the back, and some ducks amongst the grass and reeds at the side of the pool--nothing more--a mere sketch, which Mr. Phillips can rub in, as he calls it, in little more than a week. Your trees and hedges, and cows and poultry, and bits of lake and brook, and rock and hill, at Barton here, are a fortune to Mr. Phillips.” The artist smiled and shook his head.