complimentary phrases, and then, looking at his friend for assistance,
tried to come to the point, but failed. The point, which the friend kindly
explained, was that Mr. Oke was desirous to know whether my engagements
would allow of my painting him and his wife, and what my terms would be.
The poor man blushed perfectly crimson during this explanation, as if he
had come with the most improper proposal; and I noticed--the only
interesting thing about him--a very odd nervous frown between his eyebrows,
a perfect double gash,--a thing which usually means something abnormal: a
mad-doctor of my acquaintance calls it the maniac-frown. When I had
answered, he suddenly burst out into rather confused explanations: his
wife--Mrs. Oke--had seen some of my--pictures--paintings--portraits--at
the--the--what d'you call it?--Academy. She had--in short, they had made a
very great impression upon her. Mrs. Oke had a great taste for art; she
was, in short, extremely desirous of having her portrait and his painted by
me, _etcetera_.

"My wife," he suddenly added, "is a remarkable woman. I don't know whether
you will think her handsome,--she isn't exactly, you know. But she's
awfully strange," and Mr. Oke of Okehurst gave a little sigh and frowned
that curious frown, as if so long a speech and so decided an expression of
opinion had cost him a great deal.

It was a rather unfortunate moment in my career. A very influential sitter
of mine--you remember the fat lady with the crimson curtain behind
her?--had come to the conclusion or been persuaded that I had painted her
old and vulgar, which, in fact, she was. Her whole clique had turned
against me, the newspapers had taken up the matter, and for the moment I
was considered as a painter to whose brushes no woman would trust her
reputation. Things were going badly. So I snapped but too gladly at Mr.
Oke's offer, and settled to go down to Okehurst at the end of a fortnight.