’Thanks, mamma, I will have a cup of tea; Cecilia and I went to see the Brennans.’

‘And are any of them going to be married yet?’ said Olive.

‘I really don’t know; I didn’t ask them.’

’Well, they ought to be doing something with themselves; they have been trying it on long enough.  They have been going up to the Shelbourne for the last ten years.  Did they show you the dresses they brought down this season?  They haven’t worn them yet—­they keep them wrapped up in silver paper.’

‘And how did you hear all that?’ she asked.

’Oh, one hears everything!  I don’t live with my nose buried in a book like you.  That was all very well in the convent.’

‘But what have I done that you should speak to me in that way?’

‘Now, Alice dear,’ said Mrs. Barton coaxingly, ’don’t get angry.  I assure you Olive means nothing.’

‘No, indeed, I didn’t!’ Olive exclaimed, and she forced her sister back into the chair.

Arthur’s attention had been too deeply absorbed in the serenade in Don Pasquale to give heed to the feminine bickering with which his studio was ringing, until he was startled suddenly from his musical dreaming by an angry exclamation from his wife.

The picture of the bathers, which Alice had seen begun, had been only partially turned to the wall, and, after examining it for a few moments, Mrs. Barton got up and turned the picture round.  The two naked creatures who were taking a dip in the quiet, sunlit pool were Olive and Mrs. Barton; and so grotesque were the likenesses that Alice could not refrain from laughing.

’This is monstrous!  This is disgraceful, sir!  How often have I forbidden you to paint my face on any of your shameless pictures?  And your daughter, too—­and just as she is coming out!  Do you want to ruin us?  I should like to know what anyone would think if—­’ And, unable to complete her sentence, either mentally or aloud, Mrs. Barton wheeled the easel, on which a large picture stood, into the full light of the window.

If Arthur had wounded the susceptibilities of his family before, he had outraged them now.  The great woman, who had gathered to her bosom one of the doves her naked son, Cupid, had shot out of the trees with his bow and arrow, was Olive.  The white face and its high nose, beautiful as a head by Canova is beautiful; the corn-like tresses, piled on the top of the absurdly small head, were, beyond mistaking, Olive.  Mrs. Barton stammered for words; Olive burst into tears.

’Oh, papa! how could you disgrace me in that way?  Oh, I am disgraced!  There’s no use in my going to the Drawing-Room now.’

’My dear, my dear, I assure you I can change it with a flick of the brush.  Admiration carried away by idea.  I promise you I’ll change it.’

‘Come away.  Olive—­come away!’ said Mrs. Barton, casting a look of burning indignation at her husband.  ’If you cry like that, Olive, you won’t be fit to be looked at, and Captain Hibbert is coming here to-night.’