Doris had in general a severe mind as to the rich and aristocratic classes.  Her own hard and thrifty life had disposed her to see them en noir.  But the sudden rush of a certain section of them to crowd Arthur’s lectures had been certainly mollifying.  If it had not been for the Vampire, Doris was well aware that her standards might have given way.

As it was, Lady Dunstable’s exacting ways, her swoop, straight and fierce, on the social morsel she desired, like that of an eagle on the sheepfold, had made her, in Doris’s sore consciousness, the representative of thousands more; all greedy, able, domineering, inevitably getting what they wanted, and more than they deserved; against whom the starved and virtuous intellectuals of the professional classes were bound to contend to the death.  The story of that poor girl, that clergyman’s daughter, for instance—­could anything have been more insolent—­more cruel?  Doris burned to avenge her.

Suddenly—­a great clatter and noise in the passage leading from the small house behind to the studio and garden.

“Here she is!”

Uncle Charles sprang up, and reached the studio door just as a shower of knocks descended upon it from outside.  He opened it, and on the threshold there stood two persons; a stout lady in white, surmounted by a huge black hat with a hearse-like array of plumes; and, behind her, a tall and willowy youth, with—­so far as could be seen through the chinks of the hat—­a large nose, fair hair, pale blue eyes, and a singular deficiency of chin.  He carried in his arms a tiny black Spitz with a pink ribbon round its neck.

The lady looked, frowning, into the interior of the studio.  She held in her hand a very large fan, with the handle of which she had been rapping the door; and the black feathers with which she was canopied seemed to be nodding in her eyes.

“Maestro, you are not alone!” she said in a deep, reproachful voice.

“My niece, Mrs. Meadows—­Madame Vavasour,” said Bentley, ushering in the new-comer.

Doris turned from her easel and bowed, only to receive a rather scowling response.

“And your friend?” As he spoke the artist looked blandly at the young man.

“I brought him to amuse me, Maestro.  When I am dull my countenance changes, and you cannot do it justice.  He will talk to me—­I shall be animated—­and you will profit.”

“Ah, no doubt!” said Bentley, smiling.  “And your friend’s name?”

“Herbert Dunstable—­Honourable Herbert Dunstable!—­Signor Bentley,” said Madame Vavasour, advancing with a stately step into the room, and waving peremptorily to the young man to follow.

Doris sat transfixed and staring.  Bentley turned to look at his niece, and their eyes met—­his full of suppressed mirth.  The son!—­the unsatisfactory son!  Doris remembered that his name was Herbert.  In the train of this third-rate sorceress!

Her thoughts ran excitedly to the distant moors, and that magnificent lady, with her circle of distinguished persons, holiday-making statesmen, peers, diplomats, writers, and the like.  Here was a humbler scene!  But Doris’s fancy at once divined a score of links between it and the high comedy yonder.