Then he released her with a laugh.  ’You may run away, child, if you want to.  Upon my word, Fenwick, you’re advancing!  You are:  no doubt about that.  Some of the execution there is astonishing.  But all the same I don’t see you earning your bread-and-butter at portrait-painting; and I guess you don’t either.’

The speaker threw out a thin hand and patted Fenwick on the shoulder, returning immediately to a close examination of the picture.

‘I told you, sir, I should only paint portraits if I were compelled!’ said the young man, in a proud, muffled voice.  He began to gather up his things and clean his palette.

’But of course you’ll be compelled—­unless you wish to die “clemmed,” as we say in Lancashire,’ returned the other, briskly.  ’What do you say, mamma?’

He turned towards his wife, pushing up his spectacles to look at her.  He was a tall man, a little bent at the shoulders from long years of desk-work; and those who saw him for the first time were apt to be struck by a certain eager volatility of aspect—­expressed by the small head on its thin neck, by the wavering blue eyes, and smiling mouth—­not perhaps common in the chief cashiers of country banks.

As his wife met his appeal to her, the slight habitual furrow on her own brow deepened.  She saw that her husband held a newspaper crushed in his right hand, and that his whole air was excited and restless.  A miserable, familiar pang passed through her.  As the chief and trusted official of an old-established bank in one of the smaller cotton-towns, Mr. Morrison had a large command of money.  His wife had suspected him for years of using bank funds for the purposes of his own speculations.  She had never dared to say a word to him on the subject, but she lived in terror—­being a Calvinist by nature and training—­of ruin here, and Hell hereafter.

Of late, some instinct told her that he had been forcing the pace; and as she turned to him, she felt certain that he had just received some news which had given him great pleasure, and she felt certain also that it was news of which he ought rather to have been ashamed.

She drew herself together in a dumb recoil.  Her hands trembled as she put down her knitting.

‘I’d be sorry if a son of mine did nothing but paint portraits.’

John Fenwick looked up, startled.

‘Why?’ laughed her husband.

‘Because it often seems to me,’ she said, in a thin, measured voice, ’that a Christian might find a better use for his time than ministering to the vanity of silly girls, and wasting hours and hours on making a likeness of this poor body, that’s of no real matter to anybody.’

‘You’d make short work of art and artists, my dear!’ said Morrison, throwing up his hands.  ’You forget, perhaps, that St. Luke was a painter?’

‘And where do you get that from, Mr. Morrison, I’d like to ask?’ said his wife, slowly; ’it’s not in the Bible—­though I believe you think it is.  Well, good-night to you, Mr. Fenwick.  I’m sorry you haven’t enjoyed yourself, and I’m not going to deny that Bella was very rude and trying.  Good-night.’