here and there, not too bad to buy; but they would have been nowhere without their attitude that the Master was always too good to sell. They were, at all events, deliciously formed, Peter often said to himself, for their fate; the Master had a vanity, his wife had loyalty, of which success, depriving these things of innocence, would have diminished the merit and the grace. Any one could be charming under a charm, and, as he looked about him at a world of prosperity more void of proportion even than the Master’s museum, he wondered if he knew another pair that so completely escaped vulgarity.

“What a pity Lance isn’t with us to rejoice!” Mrs. Mallow on this occasion sighed at supper.

“We’ll drink to the health of the absent,” her husband replied, filling his friend’s glass and his own and giving a drop to their companion; “but we must hope that he’s preparing himself for a happiness much less like this of ours this evening—excusable as I grant it to be—than like the comfort we have always—whatever has happened or has not happened—been able to trust ourselves to enjoy. The comfort,” the Master explained, leaning back in the pleasant lamplight and firelight, holding up his glass and looking round at his marble family, quartered more or less, a monstrous brood, in every room— “the comfort of art in itself!”

Peter looked a little shyly at his wine. “Well—I don’t care what you may call it, a fellow doesn’t—but Lance must learn to sell, you know. I drink to his acquisition of the secret of a base popularity!”

“Oh, yes, he must sell,” the boy’s mother, who was still more, however, this seemed to give out, the Master’s wife, rather artlessly conceded.

“Oh,” the sculptor, after a moment, confidently pronounced, “Lance will. Don’t be afraid. He will have learnt.”

“Which is exactly what Peter,” Mrs. Mallow gaily returned— “why in the world were you so perverse, Peter?—wouldn’t, when he told him, hear of.”

Peter, when this lady looked at him, with accusatory affection— a grace, on her part, not infrequent—could never find a word; but the Master, who was always all amenity and tact, helped him out now as he had often helped him before. “That’s his old idea, you know—on which we’ve so often differed; his theory that the artist should be all impulse and instinct. I go in, of course, for a certain amount of school. Not too much, but a due proportion. There’s where his protest came in,” he continued to explain to his wife, “as against what might, don’t you see? be in question for Lance.”

“Ah, well”—and Mrs. Mallow turned the violet eyes across the table at the subject of this discourse—“he’s sure to have meant, of course, nothing but good; but that wouldn’t have prevented him, if Lance had taken his advice from being, in effect, horribly cruel.”

They had a sociable way of talking of him to his face as if he had been in the clay or—at most—in the plaster, and the Master was unfailingly generous. He might have been waving Egidio to make him revolve. “Ah, but poor Peter was not so wrong as to what it may, after all, come to that he will learn.”

“Oh, but nothing artistically bad,” she urged—still, for poor Peter, arch and dewy.

“Why, just the little French tricks,” said the Master: on which their friend had to pretend to admit, when pressed by Mrs. Mallow, that these aesthetic vices had been the objects of his dread.

III

“I know now,” Lance said to him the next year, “why you were so much against it,” He had come back, supposedly for a mere interval, and was looking about him at Carrara Lodge, where indeed he had already, on two or three occasions, since his expatriation, briefly appeared. This had the air of a longer holiday. “Something rather awful has happened to me. It isn’t so very good to know.”