As Everitt walked home he was a prey to many conflicting feelings. It must be owned that he had entered upon this freak of his in a very inconsequent manner; he had not so much as reflected what results might not grow out of the necessity for repeating it. Moreover, he had lost the first sense of amusement in his masquerade, and hated the business. Why on earth had he not accepted Mrs Marchmont's proposal, gone with her to see Miss Lascelles, and avoided this extremely false position in which he had planted himself? Why, indeed! As it was, it was with a feeling of rage that he thought of the next day, when he would be expected to stand up again before her--like a fool, as he said bitterly. Besides, it was a great deal more uncomfortable than he had expected--he was still cramped and stiff from the position. He made a swift resolution to have nothing more to do with it. It was easy enough to write a letter, as coming from him-- Everitt--to say that the model could not be spared, but that he would do his best to send her another in a day or two. That was certainly what he would do. The relief of the decision did not, however, last long. It was all very well to throw up the engagement, but was it fair upon Miss Lascelles? Everitt knew by experience that one model was by no means the same as another, and, as artist, he found his solution questionable. Also, he now felt an insurmountable objection to introducing the real Giuseppe to that little studio--it had an air of desecration repugnant to his good taste, if to nothing more. And thirdly, in spite of fooling, in spite of cramps, it must be owned he had a lurking desire to find himself there again; the homeliness of the place, its old-fashioned solidity, its mellow brick, its sunshine, its trees, its birds, its associations--one and all had, as he was obliged to acknowledge, taken a certain hold on his imagination. The girls were merely an accident--a pleasant and harmonious accident, it is true--but their surroundings had an extraordinary fascination; he could not reconcile himself to have no second peep at them. Mrs Marchmont might no doubt take him there if he announced himself as penitent for rejection of her good offices; stupidly enough, however, he had effectually shut himself out, since the risk of discovery in going to call upon the lady who has been painting you in an assumed character was rather more than even his audacity could face. It appeared, under all these circumstances, as if the best thing he could do was to figure as a ruffian once more. "It will be a lesson to me," he said, with a half laugh, "even if fate lets me off this time without playing me a scurvy trick." Fate spared him. He got into his studio unseen of Hill or Jack. Jack came thundering at his door not three minutes after he had changed his clothes.