The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  MRS. DOBBS BROUGHTON'S DINNER-PARTY.

  Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risenso high in the world that people in the west-end of town, and veryrespectable people too,--people living in South Kensington, inneighbourhoods not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome housesround Bayswater,--were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money had beenleft to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified thatmoney. He was a private secretary, which is in itself a great advanceon being a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly intimatefriend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion duringthe last year or two,--one Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich Englishworld was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and whoseemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugar-plums. I don'tknow whether the friendship of Conway Dalrymple had not done as muchto secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner-tables, ashad either the private secretaryship, or the earl's money; and yet,when they had first known each other, now only two or three yearsago, Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chancehad brought them together, and they had lived in the same rooms fornearly two years. This arrangement had been broken up, and the ConwayDalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere nearKensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young countesses,and in which he had even painted a young duchess. It was the peculiarmerit of his pictures,--so at least said the art-loving world,--thatthough the likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modernportrait was never there. There was also ever some story told inDalrymple's pictures over and above the story of the portraiture.This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess asa goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and ConwayDalrymple was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with considerablerapidity.

  On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at acertain house in that Bayswater district. It was a large mansion,if not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows atleast, all of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, atleast four thousand a year for its maintenance. And its owner, DobbsBroughton, a man very well known both in the City and over the grassin Northamptonshire, was supposed to have a good deal more than fourthousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful woman, whocertainly was not yet thirty-five, let her worst enemies say whatthey might, had been painted by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. Therewere, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs.Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand sometimes;two Graces looking one way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs.Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in the face. The samelady looked away from you, displaying her left shoulder as one sideGrace, and displaying her right shoulder as the other side Grace. Forthis pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had picked up a gilt sugar-plumto the tune of six hundred pounds, and had, moreover, won the heartboth of Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "Upon my word, Johnny,"Dalrymple had said to his friend, "he's a deuced good fellow, hasreally a good glass of claret,--which is getting rarer and rarerevery day,--and will mount you for a day, whenever you please,down at Market Harboro'. Come and dine with them." Johnny Eamescondescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs Broughton. I wonderwhether he remembered, when Conway Dalrymple was talking of therarity of good claret, how much beer the young painter used to drinkwhen they were out together in the country, as they used to beoccasionally, three years ago; and how the painter had then beenused to complain that bitter beer cost threepence a glass, insteadof twopence, which had hitherto been the recognized price of thearticle. In those days the sugar-plums had not been gilt, and hadbeen much rarer.

  Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr. DobbsBroughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, Eames pickedhim up in a cab. "Filthy things, these cabs are," said Dalrymple, ashe got into the Hansom.

  "I don't know about that," said Johnny. "They're pretty good, Ithink."

  "Foul things," said Conway. "Don't you feel what a draught comes inhere because the glass is cracked. I'd have one of my own, only Ishould never know what to do with it."

  "The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think," said Johnny.

  "If you could always have it standing ready round the corner," saidthe artist, "it would be delightful. But one would want half a dozenhorses, and two or three men for that."

  "I think the stands are the best," said Johnny.

  They were a little late,--a little later than they should have beenhad they considered that Eames was to be introduced to his newacquaintances. But he had already lived long enough before the worldto be quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs.Broughton's drawing-room with his pleasantest smile upon his face.But as he entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spiteof his efforts to the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary tothe Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rugbefore the fire.

  "Who will be there?" Eames had asked of his friend, when thesuggestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to him.

  "Impossible to say," Conway had replied. "A certain horrible fellowof the name of Musselboro, will almost certainly be there. He alwaysis when they have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a sort ofpartner of Broughton's in the City. He wears a lot of chains, and haselaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat, which is worse; andhe doesn't wash his hands as often as he ought to do."

  "An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said Eames.

  "Well, yes; Musselboro is objectionable. He's very good-humoured youknow, and good-looking in a sort of way, and goes everywhere; thatis among people of this sort. Of course he's not hand-and-glove withLord Derby; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. Theyhaven't any other standing dish, and you may meet anybody. Theyalways have a Member of Parliament; they generally manage to catcha Baronet; and I have met a Peer there. On that august occasionMusselboro was absent."

  So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once forMr. Musselboro. "If I don't see the whiskers and chain," he had said,"I shall know there's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the room, butEames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he had seen Mr.Musselboro.

  There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie.They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful,but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown intocontact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him andhad beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtainingsome mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be ashamedof meeting Crosbie; and yet, when he saw him, the blood mountedall over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for Mr.Musselboro.

  "I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bringing you," said Mrs.Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, "only he ought to have come sooner.Naughty man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolinesdown? Miss Demolines,--Mr. Eames."

  Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed our herovery cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gavehimself airs and did not sufficiently understand that a man who hadhorses at Market Harboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any rate as goodas a painter who was pelted with gilt sugar-plums for paintingcountesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never lasted long, andhe was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though he loved himdearly.

  But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, andJohnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to MissDemolines,--which was difficult, as he did not in the least know MissDemolines' line of conversation,--was aware that his efforts wereimpeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than when hehad last seen him,--so much older that Eames was astonished. He wasbald, or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or were becominggrey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was always thinkingof Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking of AdolphusCrosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourning, thoughthere was nothing but his shirt-studs by
which to tell it; and heknew that he was in mourning for his wife. "I wish she might havelived for ever," Johnny said to himself.

  He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of theservant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walkedacross to him from the rug and addressed him.

  "Mr. Eames," said he, "it is some time since we met." And he offeredhis hand to Johnny.

  "Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. "Idon't know exactly how long, but ever so long."

  "I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you,"said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to waitwith his arm ready for Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earl'sdaughter he was selected for that honour. There was a barrister inthe room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. Asshe professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down bythe recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that a mantakes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to mercifulconsideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs. DobbsBroughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She cannotlet her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select some one forthe honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank howis it possible for a woman to learn and to remember everything? IfProvidence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer for everydinner-party, the thing would go more easily; but what woman willtell me, off-hand, which should go out of a room first: a C.B., anAdmiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches?Who is to know who was everybody's father? How am I to remember thatyoung Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight whenhe was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have knownthat Mr. Crosbie could have gained nothing by his wife's rank, andthe barrister may be considered to have been not immoderately severewhen he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and mostignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eames with the lovelyMiss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess.Mr. Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old LadyDemolines. There was no doubt about Lady Demolines,--as his wifehad told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had beena physician in Paris, and had been knighted in consequence ofsome benefit supposed to have been done to some French scion ofroyalty,--when such scions in France were royal and not imperial.Lady Demolines' rank was not much, certainly; but it served to markher, and was beneficial.

  "I am very glad to have the opportunityof shaking hands with you."]

  As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting withCrosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and hisneighbour had not said a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinnersquite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among whom sixare ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and generallyon the next neighbour who specially belongs to you; and as he tookhis seat he was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next twohours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, andhe did not much like the look of Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy,and good-looking; with a broad space between her eyes, and lightsmooth hair;--a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whomany barrister with a young family of children might be proud. NowMiss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was atany rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped eyes, and verydark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary manner,and she had an expressive face,--a face made expressive by theowner's will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint oflabour,--though it never reaches to the expression of anything inparticular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justifiedin considering herself to be a beauty.

  But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her gamevery well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good purpose inthe drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is standing;--norcan she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself.Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit rebelsagainst the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But MissDemolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on theother side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced herenterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately awarethat he would have no difficulty as to conversation.

  "Don't you like winter dinner-parties?" began Miss Demolines. Thiswas said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time todeclare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year ifthe dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host hadmuttered something which was intended to be understood to be a grace."But I mean especially in winter," continued Miss Demolines. "I don'tthink daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table; and thoughyou may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And thenthere are always so many other things to go to in May and June andJuly. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those threemonths. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we always flyaway on the first of August.

  "That is good-natured on your part."

  "I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society;--but at thistime of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable."

  "Very comfortable, I think."

  "And people get to know each other;"--in saying which Miss Demolineslooked very pleasantly up into Johnny's face.

  "There is a great deal in that," said he. "I wonder whether you and Iwill get to know each other?"

  "Of course we shall;--that is, if I'm worth knowing."

  "There can be no doubt about that, I should say."

  "Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Eames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is afriend of yours."

  "Hardly a friend."

  "I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shakehands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss."

  "When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred atthe bottom of it."

  "And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie foranything I know to the contrary," said Miss Demolines.

  "The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look grave.

  "Ah; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell himanything I say. What a strange history that was of his marriage!"

  "So I have heard;--but he is not quite bosom friend enough with me tohave told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead."

  "Dead; oh, yes; she has been dead these two years I should say."

  "Not so long as that, I should think."

  "Well,--perhaps not. But it's ever so long ago;--quite long enoughfor him to be married again. Did you know her?"

  "I never saw her in my life."

  "I knew her,--not well indeed; but I am intimate with her sister,Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that familyhave married what you may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray look atthe menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinnerof my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I always expectsome gentleman to do that for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only livedwith his wife for one month."

  "So I've been told."

  "And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. Hedoesn't look that sort of man, does he?"

  "Well;--no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do you mean?"

  "Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treatedanother girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died ofit,--with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is,indifferent as possible;--and would treat me in the same wayto-morrow if I would let him."

  Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines aboutLily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work inearnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by."But you've skipped the pate," she said, with energy.

  "Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much morefit to do it." And she did choose his dinner for him.

  They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladiesand gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr. Musselbor
owas opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. VanSiever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She wasa ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from thenature of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a falsefront, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceivedthat she would suppose that any one would be ignorant as to theirfalseness. She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting asideher wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastlyold woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode oftalking. She seemed to know Mr. Musselboro very well, for she calledhim by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as aclerk in her husband's office.

  "Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks?" she said tohim. Now Mrs. What's-his-name,--Mrs. Dobbs Broughton we will callher,--was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between himand Mr. Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather hardto answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware thatother questions would follow.

  "What's the use?" said Mr. Musselboro. "Everybody has these platedthings now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead?"

  "Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Musselboro,that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn'tlying dead as long as people know that you've got it."

  Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs.Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. "You won't find thatthere is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton," hesaid.

  "I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe whatpeople told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City thananywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which theyoung man painted?"

  "What, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait?"

  "You don't call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with thethree naked women?" Mr. Musselboro glanced round with one eye, andfelt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But theold woman was determined to have an answer. "How much did he give forit, Musselboro?"

  "Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Musselboro, lookingstraight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat thesubject with perfect indifference.

  "Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn't got silverspoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was thatyoung man who came in with the painter?"

  Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. "A Mr.John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever," said Mrs. Broughton, whisperingacross the front of Mr. Musselboro. "He is private secretary toLord--Lord--Lord--I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know.And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord--Lord--Lordsomebody else."

  "All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. DobbsBroughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack which hadbeen made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had had the reallord to dine with her.

  There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie andConway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought thereto sit next to Miss Van Siever. "There's no knowing how much she'llhave," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of her friendship."But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich."

  "But she's awful in another way, too," said Dalrymple.

  "Indeed she is, Conway." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had got into a way ofcalling her young friend by his Christian name. "All the world callshim Conway," she had said to her husband once when her husband caughther doing so. "She is awful. Her husband made the business in theCity, when things were very different from what they are now, and Ican't help having her. She has transactions of business with Dobbs.But there's no mistake about the money."

  "She needn't leave it to her daughter, I suppose?"

  "But why shouldn't she? She has nobody else. You might offer to painther, you know. She'd make an excellent picture. So much character.You come and see her."

  Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss VanSiever, saying something, however, as to his present position beingone which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs.Dobbs Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he wasaltogether wrong, and that were he to forget himself, or commithimself, or misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasantintimacy. In answer to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that his Gracewas surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come tomeet Miss Van Siever, and was seated next to her at table.

  Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached hertwenty-fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fairand large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her featureswere regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of theirown, looking at you always stedfastly and boldly, though veryseldom pleasantly. Her mouth would have been beautiful had it notbeen too strong for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect,--tooperfect,--looking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knewthe fault of this perfection, and shewed her teeth as little as shecould. Her nose and chin were finely chiselled, and her head stoodwell upon her shoulders. But there was something hard about it allwhich repelled you. Dalrymple, when he saw her, recoiled from her,not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be a horseor a tiger; but there was about her nothing of feminine softness.He could not bring himself to think of taking Clara Van Siever asthe model that was to sit before him for the rest of his life. Hecertainly could make a picture of her, as had been suggested by hisfriend, Mrs. Broughton, but it must be as Judith with the disseveredhead, or as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yes,--hethought she would do as Jael; and if Mrs. Van Siever would throwhim a sugar-plum,--for he would want the sugar-plum, seeing thatany other result was out of the question,--the thing might be done.Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respecting Miss VanSiever,--before he led her down to dinner.

  At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, andnot with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy, orapparent pleasure in talking. Now the young artist was in the habitof being flattered by ladies, and expected to have his small talkmade very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, andwas not generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of makinghimself agreeable.

  "Were you ever painted yet?" he asked her after they had both beensitting silent for two or three minutes.

  "Was I ever--ever painted? In what way?"

  "I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Rachel; buthave you ever had your portrait taken?"

  "I have been photographed,--of course."

  "That's why I asked you if you had been painted,--so as to make somelittle distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, anddo portraits."

  "So Mrs. Broughton told me."

  "I am not asking for a job, you know."

  "I am quite sure of that."

  "But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat tosomebody."

  "I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things atthe instigation of one's intimate friends,--fathers, mothers, uncles,and aunts, and the like."

  "Or husbands, perhaps,--or lovers?"

  "Well, yes; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would neverdream of such a thing. She hates pictures."

  "Hates pictures!"

  "And especially portraits. And I'm afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she hatesartists."

  "Good heavens; how cruel! I suppose there is some story attachedto it. There has been some fatal likeness,--some terriblepicture,--something in her early days?"

  "Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that hersympathies are with ugly things, rather than with pretty things. Ithink she loves the mahogany dinner-table better than anything elsein the house; and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, andsolid."

  "And good?"

  "Good of its kind, certainly."

  "If everybody was like your mother, how would the artists live?"

  "There would be none."

&
nbsp; "And the world, you think, would be none the poorer?"

  "I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very muchthe poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do notsuppose that I understand them."

  "They are easier understood than the modern, I can tell you. Perhapsyou don't care for modern pictures?"

  "Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have broughtit on yourself. But I do not in truth mean anything derogatory to thepainters of the day. When their pictures are old, they,--that is thegood ones among them,--will be nice also."

  "Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think?"

  "Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The coloursof new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright andself-conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition likecoloured prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same thingwith buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to theimagination."

  "I find I have come across a real critic."

  "I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one;" and Miss Van Siever asshe said this looked very savage.

  "I shouldn't take you to be a sham in anything."

  "Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertaketo say that he is not a sham in anything?"

  As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever alsogot up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he couldsay or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything.As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he shouldnot object to paint her portrait, even though there might be nosugar-plum. He would certainly do it as Jael; and he would, if hedared, insert dimly in the background some idea of the face ofthe mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of thesacrifice. He was composing his picture, while Mr. Dobbs Broughtonwas arranging himself and his bottles.

  "Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up between you and Crosbie. Mr.Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain; or,rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will."

  "I'll keep it moving," said Johnny.

  "Do; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it? OldRamsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant inLondon, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot oftidy Bordeaux. It's '41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took itall."

  "What was the figure, Broughton?" said Crosbie, asking the questionwhich he knew was expected.

  "Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it's worth ahundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money.Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first."

  "Thank you, no; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry."

  "Don't like it!" said Dobbs Broughton.

  "It's strange, isn't it? but I don't."

  "I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?" said Johnnyto his friend afterwards.

  "So I did," said Conway; "and wonderfully good wine it is. But I makeit a rule never to eat or drink anything in a man's house when hepraises it himself and tells me the price of it."

  "And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," saidJohnny.

  Before they went, Johnny Eames had been specially invited to callon Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. "We live inPorchester Gardens," said Miss Demolines. "Upon my word, I believethat the farther London stretches in that direction, the farthermamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it's a longway."

  "Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny; "I can always set off overnight."

  Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, butbefore he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friendMrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. "She is a fine young woman,"he said; "she is indeed."

  "You have found it out, have you?"

  "Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'llmurder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by somenewly-invented crime; but that only makes her the more interesting."

  "And when you add to that all the old woman's money," said Mrs. DobbsBroughton, "you think that she might do?"

  "For a picture, certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model.Could we not manage it? Get her once here, without her mother knowingit, or Broughton, or any one. I've got the subject,--Jael and Sisera,you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with the nailhalf driven in." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that the scheme was agreat deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she promisedto think of it.

  "You might as well come up and have a cigar," Dalrymple said, as heand his friend left Mr. Broughton's house. Johnny said that he wouldgo up and have a cigar or two. "And now tell me what you think ofMrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said Conway.

  "Well; I'll tell you what I think of them. I think they stink ofmoney, as the people say; but I'm not sure that they've got any allthe same."

  "I should suppose he makes a large income."

  "Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good deal ofit looked to me like make-believe. There's no doubt about the claret,but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have suchstuff handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of realgold about the house."

  "I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the artist.

  "So do I,--I hate it like poison but if it is there, I like it to betrue. There is a sort of persons going now,--and one meets them outhere and there every day of one's life,--who are downright Brummagemto the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize themas such at the very first moment. My honoured lord and master, SirRaffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down uponthe counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, mydear Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend Mr. DobbsBroughton."

  "I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you meanis, that he's not a gentleman."

  "I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come to talkof a gentleman, who is to define the word? How do I know whether orno I'm a gentleman myself? When I used to be in Burton Crescent, Iwas hardly a gentleman then,--sitting at the same table with Mrs.Roper and the Lupexes;--do you remember them, and the lovely Amelia?"

  "I suppose you were a gentleman, then, as well as now."

  "You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio inKensington Gardens, would not have said so, if you had happened tocome across me. I can't define a gentleman, even in my own mind;--butI can define the sort of man with whom I think I can livepleasantly."

  "And poor Dobbs doesn't come within the line?"

  "N--o, not quite; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I'm verymuch obliged to you for taking me there."

  "I never will take you to any house again. And what did you think ofhis wife?"

  "That's a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman withsuch a figure as hers has got a right to be anything she pleases.I see you are a great favourite."

  "No, I'm not;--not especially. I do like her. She wants to make up amatch between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to have goldby the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank shares,and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune."

  "And is very handsome into the bargain."

  "Yes; she's handsome."

  "So is her mother," said Johnny. "If you take the daughter, I'lltake the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a mine or two.Good-night, old fellow. I'm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go anddine there again to-morrow, if you like it."