some rapidity of late, was displaying before the half-sympathetic, half-sarcastic eyes of Watson, some presents that he was just sending off to his mother and sisters in Scotland.  A white dress, a lace shawl, some handkerchiefs, a sash, a fan—­there they lay, ranged on brown paper on the studio floor.  Cuningham was immensely proud of them, and had been quite ready to show them to Fenwick also, fingering their fresh folds, enlarging on their beauties.  And Fenwick had thought sorely of Phoebe as he watched Cuningham turn the pretty things over.  When had he ever been able to give her any feminine gauds?  Always this damned poverty, pressing them down!

But now—­by Jove!—­

He made the hansom stop, rushed into Peter Robinson’s, bought a dress-length of pink-and-white cotton, a blue sash for Carrie, and a fichu of Indian muslin and lace.  Thrusting his hand into his pocket for money, he found only a sovereign—­pretty nearly his last!—­and some silver.  ‘That’s on account,’ he said loftily, giving the sovereign to the shopman; ’send the things home to-morrow afternoon—­to-morrow afternoon, mind—­and I’ll pay for them on delivery.’

Then he jumped into his hansom again, and for sheer excitement told the man to hurry, and he should have an extra shilling.  On they sped down Park Lane.  The beds of many-coloured hyacinths in the Park shone through the cheerful dusk; the street was crowded, and beyond, the railings, the seats under the trees were full of idlers.  There was a sparkle of flowers in the windows of the Park Lane houses, together with golden sunset touches on the glass; and pretty faces wrapt in lace or gauze looked out from the hansoms as they passed him by.  Again the London of the rich laid hold on him; not threateningly this time, but rather as though a door were opened and a hand beckoned.  His own upward progress had begun; he was no longer jealous of the people who stood higher.

Dorchester House, Dudley House;—­he looked at them with a good-humoured tolerance.  After all, London was pleasant; there was some recognition of merit; and even something to be said for Academies.

Then his picture began to hover before him.  It was a big thing; suppose it took him years?  Well, there would be portraits to keep him alive.  Meanwhile it was true enough what he had said to Madame de Pastourelles.  As a painter he had never been properly trained.  His values were uncertain; and he had none of the sureness of method which men with half his talent had got out of study under a man like, say, Carolus Duran.

Supposing now, he went to Paris for a year?  No, no!—­too many of the Englishmen who went to Paris lost their individuality and became third-rate Frenchmen.  He would puzzle out things for himself—­stick to his own programme and ideas.

English poetic feeling, combined with as much of French technique as it could assimilate—­there was the line of progress.  Not the technique of these clever madmen—­Manet, Degas, Monet, and the rest—­with the mean view of life of some, and the hideous surface of others.  No!—­but the Barbizon men—­and Mother Nature, first and foremost!  Beauty too, beauty of idea and selection—­not mere beauty of paint, to which everything else—­line, modelling, construction—­was to be vilely sacrificed.