’Night and day.  It possessed me.  I didn’t want you to see it yet a while.  But you understand?—­it is to be romantic—­not sentimental.  Strong form.  Every figure discriminated, and yet kept subordinate to the whole.  No monotony!  Character everywhere—­expressing grief—­and longing.  An evening light-between sunset and moonrise.  The sky gold—­and the torches.  Then below—­in the crowd, the autumn woods, the distant River of Death, towards which the procession moves—­a massing of blues and purples’—­his hand—­pointing—­worked rapidly over the canvas; ’and here, some pale rose, black, emerald green, dimly woven in—­and lastly, the whites of the bride-maidens, and of the bride upon her bier—­towards which, of course, the whole construction mounts.’

‘I see!—­a sort of Mantegna Triumph—­with a difference!’

‘The drawing’s all right,’ said Fenwick, with a long breath, and a stretch.  ’If I can only get the paint as I want it’—­he stooped forward again peering into the canvas—­’it’s the handling of the paint—­that’s what excites me!  I want to get it broad and pure—­no messing—­no working over!—­a fine surface!—­and yet none of your waxy prettiness.  The forms like Millet—­simple—­but full of knowledge. Ah!’—­he took up a brush, flung it down bitterly, and turned on his heel—­’I can draw!—­but why did no one ever teach me to paint?’

Eugenie lifted her eyebrows—­amused at the sudden despair.  Lord Findon laughed.  He had restrained himself so far with difficulty while these two romanced; and now, bursting with his tidings, he laid a hand on Fenwick:—­

’Look here, young man—­we didn’t come just on the loose—­to bother you.  Have you heard—?’

Fenwick made a startled movement.

‘Heard what?’

’Why, that your two pictures are accepted!—­and will be admirably hung—­both on the line, and one in the big room.’

The colour rushed again into Fenwick’s cheeks.

‘Are you sure?’ he stammered, looking from one to the other.

Lord Findon gave his authority, and then Eugenie held out her hand.

‘We are so glad!’

She had thrown back the gauze veil in which she had shrouded herself during her drive with her father, and her charming face—­still so pale!—­shone in sympathy.

Fenwick awkwardly accepted her congratulation, and shook the proffered hand.

‘I expect it’s your doing,’ he said, abruptly.

‘Not in the least!’ cried Lord Findon.  His eye twinkled.  ’My dear fellow, what are you thinking of?  These are the days of merit, and publicity!—­when every man comes to his own.’  Fenwick grinned a little.  ’You’ve earned your success anyway, and it’ll be a thumper.  Now look here, where can we talk business?’

Fenwick put down his palette, and slipped his arms into his coat.  The model lit a lamp, and disappeared.  Eugenie meanwhile withdrew discreetly to the further end of the room, where she busied herself with some wood-blocks on which Fenwick had been drawing.  The two men remained hidden behind the large canvas, and she heard nothing of their conversation.  She was aware, however, of the scratching of a pen, and immediately after her father called to her.