It had often been said of Eugenie de Pastourelles that she possessed a social magic.  She certainly displayed it on this occasion.  Half an hour later Lord Findon, who was traversing the drawing-rooms after having taken the Ambassadress to her carriage, found a regenerate and humanised Fenwick sitting beside his daughter; the centre, indeed, of a circle no less friendly to untutored talent than the circle of the dinner-table had been hostile.  Lord Findon stopped to listen.  Really the young man was now talking decently!—­about matters he understood; Burne-Jones, Rossetti—­some French pictures in Bond Street—­and so forth.  The ruffled host was half appeased, half wroth.  For if he could make this agreeable impression, why such a superfluity of naughtiness downstairs?  And the fellow had really some general cultivation; nothing like Welby, of course—­where would you find another Arthur Welby?—­but enough to lift him above the mere journeyman.  After all, one must be indulgent to these novices—­with no traditions behind them—­and no—­well, to put it plainly—­no grandfathers!  And so, with reflexions of this kind, the annoyance of a good-natured man subsided.

It was all Eugenie’s doing, of course.  She and Welby between them had caught the bear, tamed him, and set him to show whatever parlour tricks he possessed.  Just like her!  He hoped the young man understood her condescension—­and that to see her and talk with her was a privilege.  Involuntarily Lord Findon glanced across the room, at the decollete shoulders and buxom good looks of his wife.  When Eugenie was in the house the second Lady Findon never seemed to him well dressed.

When Fenwick and Cuningham had departed—­Fenwick in a glow of grateful good-humour, expressing himself effusively to his host—­Madame de Pastourelles approached her father, smiling.

‘That youth has asked me to sit to him.’

‘The audacious rascal!’ cried Lord Findon, fuming.  ’He has never seen you before—­and, besides, how does any one know what he can do?’

‘Why, you said yourself his picture was remarkable.’

‘So it is.  But what’s one picture?  What do you think, Welby?’ he said, impulsively addressing the man beside him.  ’Wasn’t it like his impudence?’

Welby smiled.

’Like Eugenie’s kindness!  It was rather charming to see his look when she said “Yes"!’

‘You said “Yes"!’ Lord Findon stared at her.

‘Come with me and see what he can do in a morning.’  She laid a quieting hand on her father’s arm.  ’You know that always amuses you.  And I want to see his picture.’

‘His picture is not bad,’ said Lord Findon, with decision.

‘I think you will have to buy it, papa.’

‘There you go,’ said Lord Findon—­’letting me in!’

‘Well, I’m off to bed.’  Smiling, she gave her hand to each, knowing that she had gained her point, or would gain it.  Arthur Welby, turning, watched her move away, say ‘Good-night’ to Lady Findon, and disappear through a distant door.  Then for him, though the room was still full of people, it was vacant.  He slipped away without any more ‘Good-byes.’