She could never bring herself to believe that her nose was pretty, although in the seclusion of her chamber she had frankly criticised her reflected image; and perhaps it was a trifle too small for most critics.  Still, her admirers declared that, especially in profile, it was delightfully piquant, and vastly preferable to the uninteresting aquilines which adorned the countenances of her mother and brother.  A provoking, childish, charming face, when all was said; it was not wonderful that Lightmark would fain put it upon canvas.  And, indeed, so far as the young girl herself was concerned, he had already a conditional promise.  She had no objection whatever to make, provided that Charles was first consulted; only she had no dress that would meet the occasion.  And when Lightmark protested that the airy white garment, with here and there a suggestion of cream-coloured lace and sulphur ribbons, which she was wearing, was entirely right, she scouted the idea with scorn.

“This old frock, Mr. Lightmark,” she exclaimed, with a pretty display of disdain for his taste, “why, I’ve worn the old thing for months!  No; if Charles says I may have my portrait painted, I shall go straight off to Madame Sophie, and then you may paint me and send me to the Academy or Grosvenor in all my glory.”

Lightmark had found it quite useless to protest, well as he knew that the ordinary French milliner can be warranted to succeed in producing a garment almost as unpaintable as a masculine black frock-coat.

On the afternoon of the day after Rainham’s return to the dock, Lightmark was caressing his fair moustache upon the doorstep of the Sylvesters’ house, No. 137, Park Street, West, a mansion of unpretending size, glorious in its summer coat of white paint, relieved only by the turquoise-blue tiles which surrounded the window-boxes, and the darker blue of the railings and front-door.  He was calling ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring how Charles Sylvester liked the frame which he had selected for the recently-finished portrait; really in order to induce her brother to allow Eve to sit to him.  Sounds as of discussion floated down the wide staircase; and when the servant opened the drawing-room door preparatory to announcing him, Lightmark heard—­and it startled him—­a well-remembered voice upraised in playful protest.

“No, ’pon my word, Mrs. Sylvester, my young scamp of a nephew hasn’t done you justice, ’pon my soul he hasn’t.”

At first he felt almost inclined to turn tail; though he had long been aware that the Sylvesters were cognisant of his relationship to the somewhat notorious old Colonel, and that they knew him, as everyone did, he had never contemplated the possibility of meeting his uncle there.

And when he had shaken hands in a bewildered manner with Mrs. Sylvester and Eve, he perceived that his uncle was greeting him with an almost paternal cordiality.

“Why, Dick, my boy, ’pon my soul I haven’t seen you for an age!  You mustn’t neglect your gouty old uncle, you know, Dick; when are you going to paint his portrait, in review order, eh?  Not until you’ve painted Miss Eve here, I’ll be bound.”