Mr. Eustace Kendal—­to give the person we have been describing his name—­was not apparently in a good temper with his surroundings.  He was standing with a dissatisfied expression before a Venetian scene drawn by a brilliant member of a group of English artists settled on foreign soil and trained in foreign methods.

‘Not so good as last year,’ he was remarking to himself.  ’Vulgar drawing, vulgar composition, hasty work everywhere.  It is success spoils all these men—­success and the amount of money there is going.  The man who painted this didn’t get any pleasure out of it.  But it’s the same all round.  It is money and luxury and the struggle to live which are driving us all on and killing the artist’s natural joy in his work.  And presently, as that odd little Frenchman said to me last year, we shall have dropped irretrievably into the “lowest depth of mediocrity."’

‘Kendal!’ said an eager voice close to his ear, while a hand was laid on his arm, ‘do you know that girl?’

Kendal turned in astonishment and saw a short oldish man, in whom he recognised a famous artist, standing by, his keen mobile face wearing an expression of strong interest and inquiry.

‘What girl?’ he asked, with a smile, shaking his questioner by the hand.

’That girl in black, standing by Orchardson’s picture.  Why, you must know her by sight!  It’s Miss Bretherton, the actress.  Did you ever see such beauty?  I must get somebody to introduce me to her.  There’s nothing worth looking at since she came in.  But, by ill luck, nobody here seems to know her.’

Eustace Kendal, to whom the warm artist’s temperament of his friend was well known, turned with some amusement towards the picture named, and noticed that flutter in the room which shows that something or some one of interest is present.  People trying to look unconcerned, and catalogue in hand, were edging towards the spot where the lady in black stood, glancing alternately at her and at the pictures, in the manner of those equally determined to satisfy their curiosity and their sense of politeness.  The lady in question, meanwhile, conscious that she was being looked at, but not apparently disturbed by it, was talking to another lady, the only person with her, a tall, gaunt woman, also dressed in black and gifted abundantly with the forbidding aspect which beauty requires in its duenna.

Kendal could see nothing more at first than a tall, slender figure, a beautiful head, and a delicate white profile, in flashing contrast with its black surroundings, and with lines of golden brown hair.  But in profile and figure there was an extraordinary distinction and grace which reconciled him to his friend’s eagerness and made him wish for the beauty’s next movement.  Presently she turned and caught the gaze of the two men full upon her.  Her eyes dropped a little, but there was nothing ill-bred or excessive in her self-consciousness.  She took her companion’s arm with a quiet movement, and drew her towards one of the striking pictures of the year, some little way off.  The two men also turned and walked away.