My lady's portrait stood on an easel, covered with a green baize in the
center of the octagonal chamber. It had been a fancy of the artist to
paint her standing in this very room, and to make his background a
faithful reproduction of the pictured walls. I am afraid the young man
belonged to the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, for he had spent a most
unconscionable time upon the accessories of this picture--upon my lady's
crispy ringlets and the heavy folds of her crimson velvet dress.

The two young men looked at the paintings on the walls first, leaving
this unfinished portrait for a _bonne bouche_.

By this time it was dark, the candle carried by Robert only making one
nucleus of light as he moved about holding it before the pictures one by
one. The broad, bare window looked out upon the pale sky, tinged with
the last cold flicker of the twilight. The ivy rustled against the glass
with the same ominous shiver as that which agitated every leaf in the
garden, prophetic of the storm that was to come.

"There are our friend's eternal white horses," said Robert, standing
beside a Wouvermans. "Nicholas Poussin--Salvator--ha--hum! Now for the
portrait."

He paused with his hand on the baize, and solemnly addressed his friend.

"George Talboys," he said, "we have between us only one wax candle, a
very inadequate light with which to look at a painting. Let me,
therefore, request that you will suffer us to look at it one at a time;
if there is one thing more disagreeable than another, it is to have a
person dodging behind your back and peering over your shoulder, when