nor consciously occupied with the pressing problems of his own
existence, his face expressed a natural amiability, inclining to
pensiveness. The features were in no way remarkable; they missed the
vigour of his father's type without attaining the regularity which
had given his mother a claim to good looks. Such a visage falls to
the lot of numberless men born to keep themselves alive and to
propagate their insignificance. But Dyce was not insignificant. As
soon as his countenance lighted with animation, it revealed a
character rich in various possibility, a vital force which, by its
bright indefiniteness, made some appeal to the imagination. Often he
had the air of a lyric enthusiast; often, that of a profound
thinker; not seldom there came into his eyes a glint of stern energy
which seemed a challenge to the world. Therewithal, nothing
perceptibly histrionic; look or speak as he might, the young man
exhaled an atmosphere of sincerity, and persuaded others because he
seemed so thoroughly to have convinced himself.

He did not give the impression of high breeding. His Oxford voice,
his easy self-possession, satisfied the social standard, but left a
defect to the finer sense. Dyce had not the self-oblivion of entire
courtesy; it seemed probable that he would often err in tact; a
certain awkwardness marred his personal bearing, which aimed at the
modern ideal of flowing unconstraint.

Sipping the cup of tea which his mother had handed to him, Dyce
talked at large. Nothing, he declared, was equal to the delight of
leaving town just at this moment of the year, when hedge and meadow
were donning their brightest garments and the sky gleamed with its
purest blue. He spoke in the tone of rapturous enjoyment, and yet
one might have felt a doubt whether his sensibility was as keen as