Aunt Freddy’s reply was less distinct and definite than was usual with her.  Oh, well—­occasionally—­yes, generally—­at least, always sometimes—­he was painting her in the garden, on that seat by the yew hedge—­so sheltered and sunny, and the weather was so perfect; she was working in the garden herself every morning.  Thus did the righteous Frederica wriggle and prevaricate, causing Lady Isabel to assume that the full rigours of chaperonage were complied with, while to herself, Aunt Freddy thought that it would be perfectly ideal.  But what “it” was, she did not particularise to anyone.

Mr. St. Lawrence Coppinger was not a great artist, but it had been conceded to him, even in the studio, that he had pretty colour (which was quite without reference to his own complexion) and a knack of catching a likeness.  Added to these gifts he possessed a third, in being able to talk without hindering the activities of his brush.  They talked a great deal to each other during those long, delightful mornings in the sunny corner by the yew-hedge; idle, intimate talk, that wandered back to the days of the Companions of Finn, and on, through stirring tales of the Quartier Latin into the future, and what it was to hold for them.  Larry knew what his future must hold if it was to satisfy him.  Since the moment when “Love’s sickness” had laid hold of him (the same as a person would get a stitch leaning over a churn) he had known it.  While he painted her, staring deep and hard, appraising, carefully, with his outer soul, the curve of her cheek, the delicate drawing of her small ear, the tender droop of her dark eyelashes, all the subtle values of light and shade, all the problem of inherent colour, and the colour that was lent by the sky and the green things round her, his inner soul was repeating the old saying:  “I love my eyes for looking at you!”

Sometimes he thought he would stand it no longer, he would throw down his palette and his brushes, and let the portrait go to blazes, and kneel at her feet, telling her, over and over again, that he loved her, until she would have to believe him.  Yet, for there is something inhuman about the artist, he refrained.  The portrait was going so well—­the best head he had ever done—­out of sight better than anything he had done at the studio (what wouldn’t he give to have a lesson on it from old Chose!).  He wouldn’t break the spell of successful work until he could carry the picture no farther.  Then, he thought to himself, oh then, he would be strong to speak!

And, did he but know it, there was no need to speak; not any need at all.  For Christian knew.  Not enough has been said about her if it has not been made clear that, for her spirit, the barriers and coverings that other spirits take to themselves wherewith to build hiding-places and shelters were “of little avail.  Motives and tendencies, the hidden forces that underlie action, were perceptible to her as are to the water-diviner the secret waters that bend and