Mr. Wentworth looked grave; he felt awkwardly, as if all the company had come in and found him standing before the looking-glass.  “The Lord made it,” he said.  “I don’t think it is for man to make it over again.”

“Certainly the Lord made it,” replied Felix, laughing, “and he made it very well.  But life has been touching up the work.  It is a very interesting type of head.  It ’s delightfully wasted and emaciated.  The complexion is wonderfully bleached.”  And Felix looked round at the circle, as if to call their attention to these interesting points.  Mr. Wentworth grew visibly paler.  “I should like to do you as an old prelate, an old cardinal, or the prior of an order.”

“A prelate, a cardinal?” murmured Mr. Wentworth.  “Do you refer to the Roman Catholic priesthood?”

“I mean an old ecclesiastic who should have led a very pure, abstinent life.  Now I take it that has been the case with you, sir; one sees it in your face,” Felix proceeded.  “You have been very—­a very moderate.  Don’t you think one always sees that in a man’s face?”

“You see more in a man’s face than I should think of looking for,” said Mr. Wentworth coldly.

The Baroness rattled her fan, and gave her brilliant laugh.  “It is a risk to look so close!” she exclaimed.  “My uncle has some peccadilloes on his conscience.”  Mr. Wentworth looked at her, painfully at a loss; and in so far as the signs of a pure and abstinent life were visible in his face they were then probably peculiarly manifest.  “You are a beau vieillard, dear uncle,” said Madame M; auunster, smiling with her foreign eyes.

“I think you are paying me a compliment,” said the old man.

“Surely, I am not the first woman that ever did so!” cried the Baroness.

“I think you are,” said Mr. Wentworth gravely.  And turning to Felix he added, in the same tone, “Please don’t take my likeness.  My children have my daguerreotype.  That is quite satisfactory.”

“I won’t promise,” said Felix, “not to work your head into something!”

Mr. Wentworth looked at him and then at all the others; then he got up and slowly walked away.

“Felix,” said Gertrude, in the silence that followed, “I wish you would paint my portrait.”

Charlotte wondered whether Gertrude was right in wishing this; and she looked at Mr. Brand as the most legitimate way of ascertaining.  Whatever Gertrude did or said, Charlotte always looked at Mr. Brand.  It was a standing pretext for looking at Mr. Brand—­always, as Charlotte thought, in the interest of Gertrude’s welfare.  It is true that she felt a tremulous interest in Gertrude being right; for Charlotte, in her small, still way, was an heroic sister.

“We should be glad to have your portrait, Miss Gertrude,” said Mr. Brand.

“I should be delighted to paint so charming a model,” Felix declared.

“Do you think you are so lovely, my dear?” asked Lizzie Acton, with her little inoffensive pertness, biting off a knot in her knitting.