Lady R. My dear, you are much too good. I have no taste for bread and milk and book muslin. I don't like men's women, but I do like you. B. Thank you, thank you. Now I see that he has not flatnot a bit. I thought at first that he had. He had his heart in his work when he did this. tered you Lady R. Shall I show you the work in which his heart is? B. Yes. (LADY ROEDALE draws curtain from alcove, R., showing a small picture on an easel.) My picture! (Takes it.) Lady R. Yours. B. Oh, let me go! If he should come and find me here! Oh, let me go, let me go! Lady R. Too late. B. What shall I do? I hear him on the stairs. Lady R. Do as you are bid. Give me your picture, quick! Go behind the curtain, and be still. [Exit BETTY behind curtain. (LADY ROEDALE draws the curtain carefully.) Enter CLAUD, bringing ice. Claud. I bring you ice, and something better. The day is changed. Ah, the air smells wooingly here. See how I fetch and carry! Doesn't this convince you that I Lady R. (Studying the picture.) Yes, it is pretty. C. Where did you get that? Lady R. Don't be angry; I won't hurt it. C. As you please. It's of no value — now. Lady R. It is much better than mine. Indeed, it has only one fault. C. Indeed? Lady R. It is awfully flattered. C. How can you know, when you never saw the original? Lady R. Ah, that is very true. C. Put it down, please. I want to talk to you about back to what we were saying, when Lady R. Shall I throw it down here? C. Take care! What are you doing? Lady R. I thought you said it was of no value? to go C. It isn't. But then we are vain, you know, we artists; we don't like to see our work, even our bad work, destroyed. Lady R. Then I won't destroy it. I'll improve it. C. What are you going to do? I don't quite understand Let me put it away. Lady R. No, don't touch it. I often think of taking up painting. This is evidently unfinished. Why is it unfinished ? C. I was afraid of spoiling it. Lady R. Ah, that was when it was of some value; but now C. Now it doesn't matter. Let me put it away. Lady R. I shall finish it myself. C. You? Lady R. Any valueless old thing will do to practise my hand on; I am just in the mood. You have painted enough this morning. It's my turn. C. But, Clara Lady R. Come, take my picture off the easel. (CLAUD removes picture.) There! There she is in my place. A chang for the better, I think. Stand out of the light. I shall make her lovely. (As she begins to arrange the colors on the palette, CLAUD gets more and more anxious, and brings canvas fram back, L.) C. Here, try this. This sketch is much better to work on. Lady R. Don't bother. I am bent on improving this young woman. C. That's a very odd color you are getting, Lady R. What can it matter to you? C. Clara, what are you at? Stop! (He snatches the picture from the easel.) Lady R. And the picture is of no value ! C. I beg your pardon, Clara. Lady R. Valueless, but too valuable for me. C. Clara, you won't understand. Lady R. Oh yes, I will. A mere sketch, and absurdly flattered. C. Flattered! (He holds the picture in his hands, examining it) How can you know? Lady R. It is much prettier than Miss Tyrrel. C. What do you mean? Well, yes, I believe, if 1 remember right, that it was taken from Miss Tyrrel. Lady R. And I believe, if I remember right, that it is twice as pretty as Miss Tyrrel. C. You have never seen her. Lady R. Indeed I have. C. In Rome? C. Here! What do you mean? Lady R. Here, in this room. C. Člara, I dare say that this is extremely amusing to you. I don't see the joke myself. I don't see why you should rake up this old story. Yes, I do see. You wish to quarrel, to find an excuse for not answering me, when I ask you Lady R. She was here. C. The Tyrrels never leave Lindenhurst. Lady R. The Tyrrels are in Rome. C. Is this true? Don't push this joke too far. C. Then I must go. Lady R. Why? C. Is it true that the Tyrrels are here, in Rome? C. I must go, then. Oh, don't imagine anything extraordinary. It is a simple matter. These people were kind to me, kind with a generous hospitality which is rare. I stayed and stayed in their house, until I thought that I should never go, until I feared that · Well, it came to this: here were people who, in honesty and good faith, had treated me like a king; people who Lady R. Don't dilate upon the Tyrrel character just now. C. What was I doing in return for all their goodness? I found myself trying to win the love of their only child, a girl with no knowledge of the world, who had seen no men to speak of, and who might take one, even me, for a very fine fellow. Lady R. You were on the way to get what you wanted. C. I was not a scoundrel. I knew myself: a man who had knocked about the world, a painting vagabond, a social cynic, not worthy to touch her hand or look into her eyes. Highflown, you think; but I was not a scoundrel, and I went away. Lady R. But now? C. Now? Well, now, I don't want to have to do the thing again. Lady R. Then it would be hard to see her again, and go? C. Yes. Lady R. You loved her? C. I suppose so. Lady R. I always thought that you were not a bad fellow. C. I am not over-good. I don't wish to open an old wound. That's not extraordinary virtue, is it? Lady R. And the girl? What of her? C. By this time she has seen scores of men, in all respects better than me, confound them. She? Why, she — Lady R. Stop. Don't say too much about Miss Betty Tyrrel. Put her picture back, and drop the subject. Put the pic ture back in its place. C. Very well. I don't want to bore you. (With picture in his hand draws aside curtain. There is BETTY TYRREL. LADY ROEDALE, L.) Betty. (Comes down R.) Mr. Huntley, I am very sorry. I did not mean to listen. C. Miss Tyrrel - Betty — is it you? B. Oh, forgive me. I did not mean to listen. C. And it is you indeed. B. But I did not mean it. Oh, you believe that I did not hide myself here to listen! C. You! Lady R. It was my fault. C. What do you mean? Lady R. Do attend to me. Miss Tyrrel is my friend. She came to fetch me after my sitting. Finding that the studio belonged to you, of all men in the world, she was frightened; and I put her there. B. Thank you -oh, thank you! Mr. Huntley, it is so good of her to say that. But I must tell you. We are living just opposite, papa and mamma and I; and I saw you go out; and I thought you were going away; and I never stopped to think; and I slipped out by myself; and I did so want to see the place where you worked. I did not stop to think; that was where I was wrong. And I found her here, and I was frightened. Lady R. Yes, as I told you, she was frightened, and I put her in the corner. Good heavens, Claud! ain't you going to say something? Why do you stand there like a tragedian, or a May-pole? Oh, you men! B. Won't you forgive me? C. Forgive you! Why? Can you do any wrong? You have heard me say what I never dared to say in the old days. I am glad that you have heard me. You will think more kindly of me, some day, when May I see you safe across the street? Will you say all kind things for me to Mr. and Mrs. Tyrrel? Lady R. Is the man a fool? B. You are not angry with me, then? C. Are you not angry with me for having dared to love you? B. I never was angry with you, not even when you went away so suddenly. C. Were you sorry? Oh, take care, take care, child! Don't deceive me, or yourself. Were you sorry when I went away? B. We were all sorry, very sorry. C. But you, you? You came here: would you stay here with me? Oh, child, is it possible that you should care for me? B. Yes. (Places her hands in his.) C. If I had known this! (Leads her to alcove. They sit.) Lady R. (Hand on easel. Watching them, but facing audience.) Any one but a man would have known it years ago. (As she looks at CLAUD and BETTY, she begins to smile at her own thoughts.) There were only two in Paradise, in the first apple-orchard, unless you count the Serpent, and that is a rôle for which I have neither inclination nor capacity. T BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE I OLD GRIMES. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man We ne'er shall see him more: He used to wear a long, black coat, |