“Are you fond of Rossetti, Miss Redwood?” Elias asked. “I noticed you had his volume on the table, when I came in.” “Oh, I adore him. Don't you? I think it's the most beautiful poetry that ever was written--though, to be sure, I haven't read all. But I don't know any body else that agrees with me--unless you do. Now, my father, for instance. I was reading one of the sonnets aloud to him this very evening--just before the bell rang. He--what do you suppose? He laughed at it, and called it rubbish.” “I did, for a fact,” admitted Redwood. “I can't get the hang of that rigmarol. It's too mixed up.” “Well, I don't pretend to understand everything Rossetti has written,” said Christine; “not every single line. But that's my fault, not his. Sometimes he's so very deep. But the sonnet I read to you to-night--it was the one about work and will awaking too late, to gaze upon their life sailed by, Mr. Bacharach--that wasn't the least bit difficult.” “Well,” Redwood confessed, “I like a poet who talks the English language straight. Shakespeare's good enough for me, and Longfellow. But Chris, here, she goes in for all the modern improvements, especially poetry. One day I found her purse lying on the parlor table. Think, s's I, I'll open it, to put in a little surprise. By George, sir, it was stuffed out to bursting with slips of poetry cut from the newspapers! And then, aestheticism! Oscar-Wildism, I call it. She's caught that, I don't know where; and she's got it bad. Actually, she wanted me to disfigure the hard finish of these walls, here, with one of those new-fangled, aesthetic papers. But the Lord blessed me with some hard sense; and so we manage to keep things pretty much as they air.” “Air” was Redwood's way of pronouncing “are,” when he wished to be emphatic. “My father,” observed Christine, “is a deep-dyed conservative, in music, literature, politics, art, and every thing else except costumes. In the matter of costumes, I believe, he's very nearly abreast of the times.” “Oh, you needn't except costumes,” cried Redwood. “The science of costuming is a branch of archaeology. So that don't count. But look at here, Chris. What you suppose Mr. Bacharach and I have just been talking about? Guess.” “About--? Oh, I can't guess. I give it up.” “About you.” “Me?” “You.” “I hope he told you nothing bad about me, Mr. Bacharach.” “Oh, we weren't discussing your character. Men don't gossip, you know. We were talking about having your portrait painted. I've made arrangements with Mr. Bacharach to have him paint your portrait.” “Oh!” Christine exclaimed. Her brown eyes opened wide, and her cheeks reddened slightly. “And the question is,” Redwood pursued, “when will you give him the first sitting?” “Why, that is for you to say, father.” “Well, then, I say Sunday morning. How does that strike _you_, Mr. Bacharach?” “Oh, any time will be agreeable to me,” replied Elias. “Well, Chris, shall we make it Sunday morning?” “Just as you please.”