“When the same subject inspires them,” he replied, and then Adelaide reminded them again that time was flying, and they must be gone.

A few more minutes and the handsome young artist was walking quickly down the high road.  He had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.  He felt as sure of winning the beautiful young heiress as though he had placed already a wedding ring upon her finger.  He laughed to himself to think how easy the task was; so easy, in fact, that he felt a touch of contempt for that which was so easily won.

“It will be a good thing for me,” he said to himself.  “If I succeed, painting may go.  I shall not trouble myself about anything but spending money.  If I succeed, Adelaide shall have her reward.”  And he pleased himself by thinking how, out of his forty thousands, he would give her a fortune.

“She deserves it.  She has worked hard for me, and she shall not be forgotten.”

It did not occur to him that there would arise any serious difficulty.  Of course, no steps could be taken until she was twenty-one.  He could not marry her without the consent of her guardian, and to ask for it was, of course, nonsense.  He would bind her to himself with the most solemn of promises, and the very day she was of age they would be married.  As he walked toward his humble lodgings he amused himself by thinking what he should do when he became master of Hanton Hall.  No sentiment troubled Allan Lyster; he could make love in any style he liked to anyone who suited him.  As to any remorse over the girl his sister had betrayed and they had both deceived, he felt none.

“How do you like him, Marion?” asked Adelaide Lyster, as the two walked home.

“He is very handsome and very clever,” was the grave reply.

“Add to that—­he is more deeply in love than any man ever was yet,” said Miss Lyster, laughingly.  “Marion, he worships you—­his love is something that frightens me.”

Miss Arleigh avowed that it was true.

“He will go home,” continued Adelaide, “and instead of going to sleep like a sensible man, he will walk about all night, composing grand poems about you.”

“Does he write poetry?” asked Marion, with increased admiration.

“He is a poet and artist both,” said his sister, with a little touch of pride that amused the heiress.

That was Miss Arleigh’s first interview with her admirer, the second was, he assured her, for the sake of the picture—­the third, that he might see how the picture was going on—­the fourth, that she might see it completed—­the fifth, because she found the flattery of his love so irresistible she could no longer do without it—­the sixth, because she began to fall in love with him herself—­and then she lost all count, she lived for those interviews, and nothing else.

“I want to impress one thing upon you,” said Adelaide to her brother; “bear it always in mind.  When you think you have made sufficient advances in her favor to ask her to marry you, do not rest satisfied with her spoken word, make her write it.  It will be of no use to you unless you do that.”