Harrington paused, she told him in a sweet, even voice the story
of the "Knight of France" who founded Briar Farm. He was
enthralled--not so much by the tale as by her way of telling it.

"And so Jocelyn the painter is the lineal descendant of the
BROTHER of your Jocelin!--the knight who disappeared and took to
farming in the days of Elizabeth!" he said--"Upon my word, it's a
quaint bit of history and coincidence--almost too romantic for
such days as these!"

Innocent smiled.

"Is romance at an end now?" she asked.

Harrington looked at her kindly.

"Almost! It's gasping its last gasp in company with poetry.
Realism is our only wear--Realism and Prose--very prosy Prose. YOU
are a romantic child!--I can see that!--but don't over-do it! And
if you ever made an ideal out of your sixteenth-century man, don't
make another out of the twentieth-century one! He couldn't stand
it!--he'd crumble at a touch!"

She answered nothing, but avoided his glance. He prepared to take
his leave--and on rising from his chair suddenly caught sight of
the portrait on the harpsichord.

"I know that face!" he said, quickly,--"Who is he?"

"He WAS also a painter--as great as the one we have just been