as she is. May I ask why?”

“Because,” she said, “she is my dearest friend, and I don’t like my friends to be disappointed. And she is so enthusiastic and eager about her art! I do wish I could bring you two together. Won’t you come and dine? George, persuade him.”

“When I come back from Pont-aven,” said Everitt, escaping with a laugh.

He was an early worker, and it was his custom to be in his studio, painting, a good hour before Jack Hibbert began his studies. He made an effective picture himself as he stood at his easel—a handsome man, rather above the usual height, dark and bright-eyed, with a clear olive skin, and well-cut features. The lofty studio, with its hangings of faded harmonious colours, its pleasant irregularities, and its pictures standing about, formed an excellent setting. A fire burnt on the hearth, and the parrot was engaged in making pertinent inquiries of his master, which Everitt answered absently, for he was at work upon a subject which interested him. At last he looked at his watch with an exclamation of annoyance.

“Where’s that fellow? He should have been here half an hour ago.” He pulled a bell impatiently, and it was answered by the porter. “Has Giuseppe come?”

“No, sir.”

“Hurry him up when he makes his appearance—that’s all. Or—stop! Is Greggs engaged this week?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Foster—where’s Foster?”

“Mr Sydney has him.”

“Well—send that fellow in the moment he comes.”

“Very good, sir.”

Everitt fell to his painting again, but without success. He was a man who had a very strong feeling about a promise, and he hated the idea of failing to fulfil it. It began, indeed, very soon to annoy him seriously. He flung down his brushes, and caught up his hat to go in search of the delinquent, when Hill, the porter, once more appeared at the door, with a significant grin on his face, at sight of which Everitt abruptly stopped and whistled.

“Oh!” he remarked the next moment.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bad?”

“Dead drunk, sir.”

“Pack off the brute,” said Everitt in a disgusted voice.

He came back and stood before his easel with his hands thrust into his pockets; then seized a brush and began filling in a bit of foreground. Presently he left his work again, and resumed his pacing.

“This won’t do; I shan’t get a decent bit of work done this morning, if I don’t settle the matter one way or other. Now, what on earth’s to be done? Write a note—present my compliments, model drunk, sorry to disappoint, and so on? Go myself, and apologise? No; that’s a little too strong. What a fool I was to get drawn into this business! If Hill weren’t wanted, I’d dress him up and send him—that wouldn’t be half a bad plan; or if I could hit upon some one as accommodating as the duke’s daughter,” he added musingly, standing before the canvas. The next minute an odd, almost eager look crept into his eyes. He began to smile, shook his head impatiently, smiled again, overmastered by the fancy, whatever it was—suddenly turned away. “Yes, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed aloud.

Whatever it was to which Everitt had made up his mind—and, as has been already hinted, he was at times the victim of freaks which laid his character open to the charge of inconsistency—he lost no time in carrying it out. His first act was to lock his doors, his second to go to a sort of cupboard where some half a dozen costumes were hanging, and to proceed to attire himself in one which belonged to the typical Italian at whom he had mocked; for it was one of his fancies to have a very complete set of these costumes, and his brother artists were not slow to avail themselves of his stores and his good-nature. Having fallen in with the fancy which suggested his present action, he was not the man to hesitate in the doing. He dressed himself rapidly, but with a care which descended to the smallest details, took down an old faded blue-green cloak, which had sunned itself often on the Trinita steps, and inspected himself closely in a looking-glass. On the whole, he thought it satisfactory. In an Italian dress his face appeared Italian; a weak point, of course, lay in his hair, which was short, but he pulled his broad hat over his forehead, and corked his eyebrows to a more generous breadth. He had no fear whatever of being recognised in the street, and as for Miss Lascelles, he assured himself that by exchanging him for Giuseppe, she had, unquestionably, no cause for complaint. His chief danger lay from meeting Jack Hibbert in the court, for Jack, with his investigating mind, was tolerably sure to overhaul an unknown model, and though in that case Everitt had resolved to take him into his confidence, it must be owned he shrank a little from the fun Jack was sure to get out of the affair.

However, he was not going to retreat; he was beginning to feel a keen interest in his own adventures. Opening the second door, which served for models and intimate friends, he took a glance round the court, and, finding it empty, hastily locked his door, and stepped out into the shadow of the trees. He was in luck, for no one was hanging about, and the next minute he was in the street. The plunge gave him, it must be owned, an odd sensation, the more so when he saw that he was only just in time, for Jack was on the other side of the street in the act of crossing, Everitt strode on quickly. He fancied himself the centre of all eyes, but after a time this feeling wore off. The people who glanced at him only saw a model on his way to a studio, a picturesque figure in the midst of unlovely things; the children stared as they would have stared at a man with a monkey, or any other show; there was nothing in him to attract unusual notice. But he felt so unusual himself, that it took him some time to make sure of this. Then, the awkwardness wearing off, his spirits rose. He found the situation amusing. He rather wished to meet some one whom he knew that he might test his disguises to the utmost. It was a beautiful morning, and there was a novelty in the impossibility of shocking probabilities by calling a hansom, which in itself was absolutely exhilarating.

When he reached the Hospital his pleasure increased. It was too early in the day for many of the old men to be out sunning themselves, but he became immediately aware of the peaceful and old-world atmosphere which hung about the place. A morning breeze was blowing up the river, and delicate white clouds sailed across the sky. In the midst of its trees lay the Hospital, warm red brick, with white pointings and grey stone pillars, on which the sunshine rested softly mellow; with its broad frontage of green turf, and its iron gates, and its little graveyard, where lie the old heroes waiting for the “last trumpet’s sounding.” Everitt had not been there for years; it seemed to him almost as if he had never been before—as if all those years he had lost something. When one or two old men, in long blue coats and brass buttons, and broad three-cornered hats, strolled out of the side gates and stared at him, he felt as if the picture were complete, except that he began to hate himself for being the incongruous feature.

He was directed to one of the brick houses which cluster near the Hospital itself, and closely resemble it in their details; his guide hobbling before him, and now and then throwing at him a suspicious glance. Everything was exquisitely trim and clean; the warm colours, the tender shadows on the old brick, the sunshine, the sober cheerfulness, the lilacs just breaking out in the