brought out new lines and new expressions never seen in it before. The
perfection of feature, the brilliancy of coloring, were there; but I
suppose the painter had copied quaint mediaeval monstrosities until his
brain had grown bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, had
something of the aspect of a beautiful fiend.

Her crimson dress, exaggerated like all the rest in this strange
picture, hung about her in folds that looked like flames, her fair head
peeping out of the lurid mass of color as if out of a raging furnace.
Indeed the crimson dress, the sunshine on the face, the red gold
gleaming in the yellow hair, the ripe scarlet of the pouting lips, the
glowing colors of each accessory of the minutely painted background, all
combined to render the first effect of the painting by no means an
agreeable one.

But strange as the picture was, it could not have made any great
impression on George Talboys, for he sat before it for about a quarter
of an hour without uttering a word--only staring blankly at the painted
canvas, with the candlestick grasped in his strong right hand, and his
left arm hanging loosely by his side. He sat so long in this attitude,
that Robert turned round at last.

"Why, George, I thought you had gone to sleep!"

"I had almost."

"You've caught a cold from standing in that damp tapestried room. Mark
my words, George Talboys, you've caught a cold; you're as hoarse as a
raven. But come along."