‘Of course.’

’The right hand seems to me too large—­and the chin wants fining.  Look!’ He took a little ivory paper-cutter from his pocket, and pointed to the line of the chin, with a motion of the head towards Madame de Pastourelles.

Fenwick looked—­and said nothing.

‘By George, I think he’s right,’ said Lord Findon, putting on spectacles.  ‘That right hand’s certainly too big.’

‘In my opinion, it’s not big enough,’ said Fenwick, doggedly.

Welby withdrew instantly from the picture, and took up his hat.  Lord Findon looked at the artist—­half angry, half amused.  ’You don’t buy her gloves, sir—­I do.’

Eugenie’s eyes meanwhile had begun to sparkle, as she stood in her sable cap and cloak, waiting for her companions.  Fenwick approached her.

‘Will you sit to-morrow?’

‘I think not—­I have some engagements.’

‘Next day?’

‘I will let you know.’

Fenwick’s colour rose.

’There is a good deal to do still—­and I must work at my other picture.’

‘Yes, I know.  I will write.’

And with a little dry nod of farewell she slipped her hand into her father’s arm and led him away.  Welby also saluted pleasantly, and followed the others.

* * * * *

Fenwick was left to pace his room in a tempest, denouncing himself as a ‘damned fool,’ bent on destroying all his own chances in life.  Why was it that Welby’s presence always had this effect upon him:—­setting him on edge, and making a bear of him?  No!—­it was not allowed to be so handsome, so able, so ingratiating.  Yet he knew very well that Welby made no enemies, and that in his grudging jealousy of a delightful artist he, Fenwick, stood alone.

He walked to the window.  Yes, there they were, all three—­Mademoiselle Barras seemed to have gone her ways separately—­just disappearing into Russell Square.  He saw that Welby had possessed himself of the fair lady’s portfolio, and was carrying her shawl.  He watched their intimate, laughing ways—­how different from the stiffness she had just shown him—­from the friendly, yet distant relations she always maintained between herself and her painter!  A fierce and irritable ambition swept through him—­rebellion against the hampering conditions of birth and poverty, which he felt as so many chains upon body and soul.  Why was he born the son of a small country tradesman, narrow, ignorant, and tyrannical?—­harassed by penury, denied opportunities—­while a man like Welby found life from the beginning a broad road, as it were, down a widening valley, to a land of abundance and delight?

But the question led immediately to an answering outburst of vanity.  He paced up and down, turning from the injustice of the past to challenge the future.  A few more years, and the world would know where to place him—­with regard to the men now in the running—­men with half his power—­Welby and the like.  A mad arrogance, a boundless confidence in himself, flamed through all his veins.  Let him paint, paint, paint—­think of nothing, care for nothing but the maturing of his gift!