you're trying to see what a picture's made of."

George fell back immediately. He took no more interest in any lady's
picture than in all the other wearinesses of this troublesome world. He
fell back, and leaning his forehead against the window-panes, looked out
at the night.

When he turned round he saw that Robert had arranged the easel very
conveniently, and that he had seated himself on a chair before it for
the purpose of contemplating the painting at his leisure.

He rose as George turned round.

"Now, then, for your turn, Talboys," he said. "It's an extraordinary
picture."

He took George's place at the window, and George seated himself in the
chair before the easel.

Yes, the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but a
pre-Raphaelite would have painted, hair by hair, those feathery masses
of ringlets, with every glimmer of gold, and every shadow of pale brown.
No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so exaggerated every attribute of
that delicate face as to give a lurid brightness to the blonde
complexion, and a strange, sinister light to the deep blue eyes. No one
but a pre-Raphaelite could have given to that pretty pouting mouth the
hard and almost wicked look it had in the portrait.

It was so like, and yet so unlike. It was as if you had burned
strange-colored fires before my lady's face, and by their influence