About this time the old earl dropped in for a chat with the artist, and invited him to stay to dinner.  Tracy cramped down his joy and gratitude by a sudden and powerful exercise of all his forces; and he felt that now that he was going to be close to Gwendolen, and hear her voice and watch her face during several precious hours, earth had nothing valuable to add to his life for the present.

The earl said to himself, “This spectre can eat apples, apparently.  We shall find out, now, if that is a specialty.  I think, myself, it’s a specialty.  Apples, without doubt, constitute the spectral limit.  It was the case with our first parents.  No, I am wrong—­at least only partly right.  The line was drawn at apples, just as in the present case, but it was from the other direction.”  The new clothes gave him a thrill of pleasure and pride.  He said to himself, “I’ve got part of him down to date, anyway.”

Sellers said he was pleased with Tracy’s work; and he went on and engaged him to restore his old masters, and said he should also want him to paint his portrait and his wife’s and possibly his daughter’s.  The tide of the artist’s happiness was at flood, now.  The chat flowed pleasantly along while Tracy painted and Sellers carefully unpacked a picture which he had brought with him.  It was a chromo; a new one, just out.  It was the smirking, self-satisfied portrait of a man who was inundating the Union with advertisements inviting everybody to buy his specialty, which was a three-dollar shoe or a dress-suit or something of that kind.  The old gentleman rested the chromo flat upon his lap and gazed down tenderly upon it, and became silent and meditative.  Presently Tracy noticed that he was dripping tears on it.  This touched the young fellow’s sympathetic nature, and at the same time gave him the painful sense of being an intruder upon a sacred privacy, an observer of emotions which a stranger ought not to witness.  But his pity rose superior to other considerations, and compelled him to try to comfort the old mourner with kindly words and a show of friendly interest.  He said: 

“I am very sorry—­is it a friend whom—­”

“Ah, more than that, far more than that—­a relative, the dearest I had on earth, although I was never permitted to see him.  Yes, it is young Lord Berkeley, who perished so heroically in the awful conflagration, what is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

“It was a little startling to be so suddenly brought face to face, so to speak, with a person one has heard so much talk about.  Is it a good likeness?”

“Without doubt, yes.  I never saw him, but you can easily see the resemblance to his father,” said Sellers, holding up the chromo and glancing from it to the chromo misrepresenting the Usurping Earl and back again with an approving eye.

“Well, no—­I am not sure that I make out the likeness.  It is plain that the Usurping Earl there has a great deal of character and a long face like a horse’s, whereas his heir here is smirky, moon-faced and characterless.”