"And he is an artist,--a painter?" asked Kenelm.

"Oh, yes; no one paints such beautiful pictures,--no one so clever, no
one so kind."

Kenelm strove to recollect if he had ever heard the name of Melville
as a painter, but in vain. Kenelm, however, knew but little of
painters: they were not in his way; and he owned to himself, very
humbly, that there might be many a living painter of eminent renown
whose name and works would be strange to him.

He glanced round the wall; Lily interpreted his look. "There are no
pictures of his here," said she; "there is one in my own room. I will
show it you when you come again."

"And now," said Mr. Braefield, rising, "I must just have a word with
your gardener, and then go home. We dine earlier here than in London,
Mr. Chillingly."

As the two gentlemen, after taking leave, re-entered the hall, Lily
followed them and said to Kenelm, "What time will you come to-morrow
to see the picture?"

Kenelm averted his head, and then replied, not with his wonted
courtesy, but briefly and brusquely,--

"I fear I cannot call to-morrow. I shall be far away by sunrise."

Lily made no answer, but turned back into the room.