“Phil,” she said, “a gentleman wants you. Chandos, the card says.” “Chandos!” read Phil, rising from the comfort of his couch, and taking his pipe out of his mouth. “Who knows Chandos?--I don't. It must be some fellow on business.” And so it proved. He found the gentleman awaiting him in the next room, and in a very short time learned his errand. Chandos introduced himself--Gerald Chandos, of The Pools, Bedfordshire, who, hearing of Mr. Crewe through numerous friends, not specified, and having a fancy--quite the fancy of an uncultured amateur, modestly--for pictures and an absorbing passion for art in all its forms, had taken the liberty of calling, etc. It was very smoothly said, and Chandos, of The Pools, being an imposing patrician sort of individual, and free from all fopperies or affectations, Phil met his advances complacently enough. It was no unusual thing for an occasional patron to drop in after this manner. He had no fault to find with a man who, having the good fortune to possess money, had the good taste to know how to spend it. So he made friends with Chandos, pretty much as he had made friends with Gowan,--pretty much as he would have made friends with any other sufficiently amiable and well-bred visitor to his modest studio. He showed him his pictures, and talked art to him, and managed to spend an hour very pleasantly, ending by selling him a couple of tiny spirited sketches, which had taken his fancy. It was when he was taking down these sketches from the wall that he heard a sort of smothered exclamation from the man, who stood a few feet apart from him, and, turning to see what it meant, he saw that he had just discovered the fresh, lovely, black-hooded head, with the trail of autumn leaves clinging to the loose trail of hair,--the picture for which Mollie had sat as model. It was very evident that Chandos, of The Pools, was admiring it. “Ah!” said he, the next minute. “I know this face. There can scarcely be two faces like it.” Phil left his sketches and came to him, the pleasure he felt on the success of his creation warming him up. This picture, with Mollie's face and head, was a great favorite of his. “Yes,” he said, standing opposite to it, with his hands in his pockets, and critical appreciation in his eyes. “You could not very well mistake it. Heads are not my exact forte, you know; but that is Mollie to a tint and a curve, and I am rather proud of it.” Chandos regarded it steadfastly. “And well you may be,” he answered. “Your sister, I believe?” “Mollie!” exclaimed Phil, stepping a trifle aside, to get into a better light, and speaking almost abstractedly. “Oh, yes, to be sure! She is my sister,--the youngest. There are three of them. That flesh tint is one of the best points.”