The clock struck five; and thereupon a sound of voices on the stairs outside.

‘Papa!’ said Madame de Pastourelles, jumping up—­in very evident relief—­her teeth chattering.

The door opened and Lord Findon put in a reconnoitring head.

‘May I—­or we—­come in?’

And behind him, on the landing, Fenwick with a start perceived the smiling face of Arthur Welby.

‘I’ve come to carry off my daughter,’ said Findon, with a friendly nod to the artist.  ‘But don’t let us in if you don’t want to.’

‘Turn me out, please, at once, if I’m in the way,’ said Welby.  ’Lord Findon made me come up.’

It was the first time that Welby had visited the Bernard Street studio.  Fenwick’s conceit had sometimes resented the fact.  Yet now that Welby was there he was unwilling to show his work.  He muttered something about there being ‘more to see in a day or two.’

‘There’s a great deal to see already,’ said Lord Findon.  ’But, of course, do as you like.  Eugenie, are you ready?’

‘Please!—­may I be exhibited?’ said Madame de Pastourelles to Fenwick, with a smiling appeal.

He gave way, dragged the easel into the best light, and fell back while the two men examined the portrait.

‘Stay where you are, Eugenie,’ said Lord Findon, holding up his hand.  ‘Let Arthur see the pose.’

She sat down obediently.  Fenwick heard an exclamation from Welby, and a murmured remark to Lord Findon; then Welby turned to the painter, his face aglow.

’I say, I do congratulate you!  You are making a success of it!  The whole scheme’s delightful.  You’ve got the head admirably.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Fenwick, rather shortly, ready at once to suspect a note of patronage in the other’s effusion.  Welby—­a little checked—­returned to the picture, studying it closely, and making a number of shrewd, or generous comments upon it, gradually quenched, however, by Fenwick’s touchy or ungracious silence.  Of course the picture was good.  Fenwick wanted no one to tell him that.

Meanwhile, Lord Findon—­though in Fenwick’s studio he always behaved himself with a certain jauntiness, as a man should who has discovered a genius—­was a little discontented.

‘It’s a fine thing, Eugenie,’ he was saying to her, as he helped her put on her furs, ’but I’m not altogether satisfied.  It wants animation.  It’s too—­too—­’

‘Too sad?’ she asked, quietly.

‘Too grave, my dear—­too grave.  I want your smile.’

Madame de Pastourelles shook her head.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I can’t go smiling to posterity!’ she said; first gaily—­then suddenly her lip quivered.

‘Eugenie, darling—­for God’s sake—­’

‘I’m all right,’ she said, recovering herself instantly.  ’Mr. Arthur, are you coming?’

‘One moment,’ said Welby; then, turning to Fenwick as the others approached them, he said, ‘Might I make two small criticisms?’