The lady looked, frowning, into the interior of the studio. She held in
her hand a very large fan, with the handle of which she had been rapping
the door; and the black feathers with which she was canopied seemed to
be nodding in her eyes.

"Maestro, you are not alone!" she said in a deep, reproachful voice.

"My niece, Mrs. Meadows--Madame Vavasour," said Bentley, ushering in the
new-comer.

Doris turned from her easel and bowed, only to receive a rather scowling
response.

"And your friend?" As he spoke the artist looked blandly at the young
man.

"I brought him to amuse me, Maestro. When I am dull my countenance
changes, and you cannot do it justice. He will talk to me--I shall be
animated--and you will profit."

"Ah, no doubt!" said Bentley, smiling. "And your friend's name?"

"Herbert Dunstable--Honourable Herbert Dunstable!--Signor Bentley," said
Madame Vavasour, advancing with a stately step into the room, and waving
peremptorily to the young man to follow.

Doris sat transfixed and staring. Bentley turned to look at his niece,
and their eyes met--his full of suppressed mirth. The son!--the
unsatisfactory son! Doris remembered that his name was Herbert. In the
train of this third-rate sorceress!