Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even--at times his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd. Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms of her husband clasped around her waist. "What is my little wife thinking of so deeply that she does not notice the sound of her husband's footsteps?" said Philip. "Of you," said Dora, laughing, "and of these flowers." "They have come again, eh?" said Philip, taking up his palette and brushes. "Yes; who sends them?" "That is what I should like to know. As I told you before, an old admirer of yours, I daresay." "Nonsense, you know better. As I said before, some old sweetheart of yours--far more likely," replied Dora. Then looking her husband straight in the eyes, she added-- "Confess." "Look here," said Philip, "I have come to work; if you tease me in this way, I shall never do anything." He tried his brushes and began mixing his colours. Dora took the little bunch of pansies which she had arranged, and placed them near the portrait. "The colours harmonise exquisitely with the yellow of the dress. How sweet they are, these pansies! Look, do look, at this dear little yellow one--what a saucy face! Put it in the picture. By-the-bye, there is a letter for you." She went to the table, where Hobbs had laid the letter, took it up and read the envelope aloud, "Philip Grantham, Esq., A.R.A. Associate of the Royal Academy! There are lots of people who live in hopes of adding letters to their name, but you, my Philip, will soon drop one: instead of A.R.A., just Royal Academician, R.A." "Who knows?" said Philip. "Perhaps--thanks to your encouragement and loving praise. There! open the letter for me, will you?" "It is Sir Benjamin Pond, who announces that he is coming to see you to-day: he wants to choose one or two pictures." "I hope he will come late, then," said Philip. "I want to finish your portrait before dinner. It ought to be easy enough--two or three hours of steady work, and the thing is done." Dora smiled a little smile of incredulity. "Seven or eight," said she, "at least." Philip had stuck the bunch of pansies on the easel, his palette was ready, he was just going to begin. "Come here," said he to Dora, "here, quite close--that's it. I can work so much better, darling, when you are near me. Look, the brush works already more easily, my hand is surer--there, that is good--splendid--I shall go ahead now." Philip was in working mood, and Dora was beaming. She could have hugged him, and would not have been able to resist the temptation, but for the fear of hindering his progress. After a few minutes' silence, she burst out-- "Philip!" "Yes, dearest," replied Philip, without withdrawing his eyes from his work.