“Not sure—­wavering already!  That’s the way the mischief begins.  If the women get a fad for you they’ll work you like a galley-slave.  You’ll have to do your round of ‘copy’ every morning.  What becomes of inspiration then?  How are you going to loaf and invite the soul?  Don’t barter your birthright for a mess of pottage!  Oh, I understand the temptation—­I know the taste of money and success.  But look at me, Stanwell.  You know how long I had to wait for recognition.  Well, now it’s come to me I don’t mean to let it knock me off my feet.  I don’t mean to let myself be overworked; I have already made it known that I will not be bullied into taking more orders than I can do full justice to.  And my sister is with me, God bless her; Kate would rather go on ironing my shirts in a garret than see me prostitute my art!”

Kate’s glance radiantly confirmed this declaration of independence, and Stanwell, with his evasive laugh, asked her if, meanwhile, she should object to his investing a part of his ill-gotten gains in theatre tickets for the party that evening.

It appeared that Stanwell had also been paid in advance, and well paid; for he began to permit himself various mild distractions, in which he generally contrived to have the Arrans share.  It seemed perfectly natural to Kate that Caspar’s friends should spend their money for his recreation, and by one of the most touching sophistries of her sex she thus reconciled herself to the anomaly of taking a little pleasure on her own account.  Mungold was less often in the way, for she had never been able to forgive him for proposing that Caspar should do Mrs. Millington’s Cupids; and for a few radiant weeks Stanwell had the undisputed enjoyment of her pride in her brother’s achievement.

Stanwell had “rushed through” Mrs. Millington’s portrait in time for the opening of her new ball-room; and it was perhaps in return for this favour that she consented to let the picture be exhibited at a big Portrait Show which was held in April for the benefit of a fashionable charity.

In Mrs. Millington’s ball-room the picture had been seen and approved only by the distinguished few who had access to that social sanctuary; but on the walls of the exhibition it became a centre of comment and discussion.  One of the immediate results of this publicity was a visit from Shepson, with two or three orders in his pocket, as he put it.  He surveyed the studio with fresh disgust, asked Stanwell why he did not move, and was impressed rather than downcast on learning that the painter had not decided whether he would take any more orders that spring.

“You might haf a studio at Newport,” he suggested.  “It would be rather new to do your sitters out of doors, with the sea behind them—­showing they had a blace on the gliffs!”