through. A few murmurs of admiration were heard, and then there was an
awful pause, while the president, as usual, waited in the never-
fulfilled hope that the discussion would start itself without help on
his part.

"How cleverly you do sketch," Miss Dimmont said, under her breath; "but
it was horrid of you to make me laugh."

"You are grateful," Fenton returned, in the same tone. "You know I kept
you from being bored to death."

"I have a cousin, Miss Wainwright," pursued Miss Dimmont, "whose
picture we want you to paint."

"If she is as good a subject as _her_ cousin," Fenton answered, "I
shall be delighted to do it."

The president had, meantime, got somewhat ponderously upon his feet,
half a century of good living not having tended to increase his natural
agility, and remarked that the company were, he was sure, extremely
grateful to Mr. Fenwick, for his very intelligent interpretation of the
poem read.

"Did he interpret it?" Fenton whispered to Mrs. Staggchase. "Why wasn't
I told?" "Hush!" she answered, "I will never let you sit by me again if
you do not behave better."

"Sitting isn't my _metier_, you know," he retorted.

The president went on to say that the lines of thought opened by the