He had managed to keep before the picture as he spoke, and now he stepped aside and let them behold it, glancing from one to the other.

“Damn!” cried Tom Tantillion, and sprang forward from his chair at sight of it.

My lord Marquess made no exclamation nor spoke one word.  The painter marked how tall he stood as he remained stationary, gazing.  He had folded his arms across his big chest and seemed to have unconsciously drawn himself to his full height.  Presently he spoke to the artist, though without withdrawing his eyes from the picture.

“’Tis no daub,” he said.  “For a thing done hastily ’tis done well.  You have given it spirit.”

’Twas fairly said.  Indeed, the poor fellow knew something of his trade, ’twas evident, and perhaps for once he had been sober, and inspired by the fire of what he saw before him.

She stood straight with her back against a tree’s trunk, her hands behind her, her eyes gazing before.  She was tall and strong as young Diana; under the shadow of her Cavalier hat, her rich-tinted face was in splendid gloom, it seeming gloom, not only because her hair was like night, and her long and wide eyes black, but because in her far-off look there was gloom’s self and somewhat like a hopeless rebellious yearning.  She seemed a storm embodied in the form of woman, and yet in her black eyes’ depths—­as if hid behind their darkest shadows and unknown of by her very self—­there lay the possibility of a great and strange melting—­a melting which was all woman—­and woman who was queen.

“By the Lord!” cried Tom Tantillion again, and then flushed up boyishly and broke forth into an awkward laugh.  “She is too magnificent a beauty for an empty-pocketed rascal like me to offer to buy her.  I have not what would pay for her—­and she knows it.  She sets her own price upon herself, as she stands there curling her vermilion lip and daring a man to presume to buy her cheap.  ’Tis only a great Duke’s son who may make bold to bid.”  And he turned and bowed, half laughing, half malicious, to Roxholm.  “You, my lord Marquess; a purse as full as yours need not bargain for the thing it would have, but clap down guineas for it.”

“A great Duke’s son!” “My lord Marquess!” The owner of the picture began to prick up his ears.  Yes, the truth was what he had thought it.

“The gentleman who owns this picture when the young lady comes up to town that the world may behold her,” he said, “will be a proud man.”

“No gentleman would have the right to keep it if he had not her permission,” said Roxholm—­and he said it without lightness.

“Most gentlemen would keep it whether she would or no,” answered the painter.

“Catch Langdon or Wyse giving it up,” says Tom.  “And Wyse said, that blackguard Oxon was coming to see it because he hath made a bet on her in open club, and hearing of the picture, said he would come to see if she were worth his trouble—­and buy her to hang in his chambers, if she were—­that he might tell her of it when he went to Gloucestershire to lay siege to her.  He brags he will persuade her he has prayed to her image for a year.”