to get frames for them." A home thrust this.

She could not honestly say that she thought much of her master's
work. Nor, apparently, did any other person. Result, tinned
meats.

Yes, one person thought a deal of it, or pretended to do so; was
constantly flinging up her hands in delight over it; had even
been caught whispering fiercely to a friend, "Praise it, praise
it, praise it!" This was when the painter was sunk in gloom.
Never, as I could well believe, was such a one as Mary for luring
a man back to cheerfulness.

"A dangerous woman," I said, with a shudder, and fell to
examining a painting over the mantel-shelf. It was a portrait of
a man, and had impressed me favourably because it was framed.

"A friend of hers," my guide informed me, "but I never seed him."

I would have turned away from it, had not an inscription on the
picture drawn me nearer. It was in a lady's handwriting, and
these were the words: "Fancy portrait of our dear unknown."
Could it be meant for me? I cannot tell you how interested I
suddenly became.

It represented a very fine looking fellow, indeed, and not a day
more than thirty.

"A friend of hers, ma'am, did you say?" I asked quite shakily.
"How do you know that, if you have never seen him?"