the room in which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever.  Indeed, she was at this time so anxious as the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either to the one of to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech came round.  To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without going to him was impossible to her.  So she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and future conduct.

‘Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed,’ she said, standing before the easel, and looking at the half-completed work.  ’I do not know that you ever did anything better.’

’I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not,’ said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else.

‘I am sure this will be good,’ she said, ’and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it.  It is not mere industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius; more than this is required.  The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing tides into the performance.’  By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture.  She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice.  He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having a scene at the moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her.  ‘It is the heart that gives success,’ she said, he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.

‘Not at all, Mrs Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease.’

‘On what, Conway?’

’On elbow-grease—­hard work, that is—­and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of today’s sitting.  The truth is, I don’t give enough hours work to it.’  And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.

’You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you.’

‘Oh, no, Mrs Broughton, I did not mean that at all.’

’I won’t interrupt you at your work.  What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment.  Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now.  Can they, Conway?’

‘I don’t see that at all,’ said he, working away at his brush.

’Do you not?  I do.  They should never amount to more—­they can never amount to more than the common ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and good-byeings of conversation.’  She said this in a low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose.  ’How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond that.’