‘Nothing of the kind, Eugenie,’ said her father, testily.  ’You think everybody as sensitive as yourself.  I assure you, young men are tough, and can stand a bit of hardship.’

‘They seem to require butcher’s meat, all the same,’ said Eugenie.  ’Do you know, papa, that I have been extremely uncomfortable about our behaviour to Mr. Fenwick?’

‘I entirely fail to see why,’ said Lord Findon, absently.  He was holding his watch in his hand, and calculating seconds.

’We have let him paint my portrait without ever saying a word of money—­and you have always behaved as though you meant to buy the “Genius Loci."’

‘Well, so I do mean to buy it,’ said Lord Findon, closing his watch with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘You should have told him so, papa, and advanced him some money.’

’It is an excellent thing, my dear Eugenie, for a young man to be kept on tenterhooks.  Otherwise they soon get above themselves.’

‘You have driven him into debt, papa.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

’I have been questioning Mr. Cuningham.  He doesn’t know, but he thinks Mr. Watson has been lending him money.’

‘Artists are always so good to one another,’ said Lord Findon, complacently.  ‘Nice fellow, Watson—­but quite mad.’

’Papa, you are incorrigible.  I tell you he has been in great straits.  He has not been able to buy a winter overcoat, and Mr. Cuningham suspects he has often not had enough to eat.  He does illustration-work the greater part of the night—­et cetera.’

‘The way you pile on the agony, my dear!’ said Lord Findon, rising.  ’What I see you want is that I should write the check, and then go with you to call on the young man?’

‘Precisely!’ said Eugenie, nodding.

Lord Findon looked at her.

‘And that you suppose is your own idea?’

Eugenie waited—­interrogatively.

’Do you know why I have never said a word to the young man about money?’

‘Because you forgot it,’ said Eugenie, smiling.

‘Not in the least,’ said Lord Findon, flushing like a school-boy found out; ‘I wanted my little sensation at the end.’

‘My very epicurean papa!’ said Eugenie, caressing him.  ’I see!  Young man in a garret—­starving—­au desespoir. Enter Providence, alias my papa—­with fame in one hand and gold in the other.  Ah, que tu es comedien, mon pere.  A la bonne heure!—­I now order the carriage!’

She moved toward the bell, but paused suddenly:—­

‘I forgot—­Arthur was to come before six.’

A slight silence fell between the father and daughter.

Lord Findon cleared his throat, took up the evening paper and laid it down again.

‘Eugenie!’

‘Yes, papa.’

Lord Findon went up to her and took her hand.  She stood with downcast eyes, the other hand playing with the folds of her dress.  Her father’s face was discomposed.