a steady fire of compliments and questions and artful
glances I saw that he began to grow uneasy.

"That was a beautiful portrait you painted!" exclaimed Miss
Paddington, looking sentimental.

"Thank you," said he; "my cousin also admires it, but I must
own that it does not quite suit me."

"Perhaps you are an admirer of the lady it represents," said
she, peering shyly into his eyes. "The Count de Montalle has
fallen in love with her and has borrowed the portrait from
my father."

"Ze picture--ah! monsieur, it is beautiful," said the Count,
who sat near them. "But ze lady--she sat for me long ago and
I had ze honor myself to paint her portrait."

He was a thin, wiry Frenchman, with small, black eyes, a
forehead sloping to a bald crown, an aquiline nose and a
pointed chin, adorned with an imperial. The face was almost
mephistophelian in effect. He had painted her portrait! Was
the man an impostor? I asked myself.

"The Count is an artist himself, you know," said Miss
Paddington.

"Yes--an artist?" asked Rayel in a half-incredulous tone.
Then he looked inquiringly at the gentleman referred to, as
if doubtful of his own understanding of the words he had