as it seemed to him, any desire for his company, and he was reduced to looking at a stand of miniatures near the door, while his heart swelled fiercely.  So this was what society meant?—­a wretched pleasure purchased on degrading terms!  A poor dependant like himself, he supposed, was to be seen and not heard—­must speak when he was spoken to, play chorus, and whisper humbleness.  As to meeting these big-wigs on equal terms, that clearly was not expected.  An artist may be allowed to know something about art; on any other subject let him listen to his betters.

He said to himself that he was sick of the whole business; and he would gladly have slipt through the open door down the stairs, and out of the house.  He was restrained, however, by the protest of a sore ambition which would not yet admit defeat.  Had he set Lord Findon against him?—­ruined the chance of a purchaser for his picture and of a patron for the future?  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cuningham, neat, amiable, and self-possessed, sitting in a corner by Lady Findon, who smiled and chatted incessantly.  And it was clear to him that Welby was the spoilt child of the room.  Wherever he went men and women grouped themselves about him; there was a constant eagerness to capture him, an equal reluctance to let him go.

‘Well, I’m as good as he—­as either of them,’ thought Fenwick fiercely, as he handled a Cosway.  ’Only they can talk these people’s lingo, and I can’t.  I can paint as well as they any day—­and I’ll be bound, if they let me alone, I could talk as well.  Why do people ask you to their houses and then ill-treat you?  Damn them!’

Meanwhile, Lord Findon had had a few whispered words with his daughter in an inner room.

’My dear!’—­throwing up his hands—­’a barbarian!  Can’t have him here again.’

‘Mr. Fenwick, papa?’

’Of course.  Cuningham ought to have warned me.  However, I suppose I brought it on myself.  I do these rash things, and must pay for them.  He was so rude to De Chailles that I have had to apologise.’

‘Poor papa!  Where is he?’

‘In the other room—­looking at things.  Better leave him alone.’

‘Oh no; he’ll feel himself neglected.’

’Well, let him.  A man ought to be made to understand that he can’t behave like that.’

‘What did he do?’

’My dear, he spoiled the whole business after dinner—­harangued the table!—­as good as told De Chailles he had no right to talk about Irving or Shakespeare, being a foreigner.  You never saw such an exhibition!’

‘Poor Mr. Fenwick.  I must go and talk to him.’

’Eugenie, don’t be a goose.  Why should you take any trouble about him?’

’He’s wonderfully clever, papa.  And clever people are always getting into scrapes.  Somebody must take him in hand.’

And, rising, she threw her father a whimsical backward look as she departed.  Lord Findon watched her with mingled smiles and chagrin.  How charmingly she was dressed to-night—­his poor Eugenie!  And how beautifully she moved!—­with what grace and sweetness!  As he turned to do his duty by an elderly countess near him, he stifled a sigh—­that was also an imprecation.