Love Among the Artists

by George Bernard Shaw

Genres: Literary Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Love Among the Artists was published in the United States in 1900 and in England in 1914, but it was written in 1881. In the ambience of chit-chat and frivolity among members of Victorian polite society a youthful Shaw describes his views on the arts, romantic love and the practicalities of matrimony. Dilettantes, he thinks, can love and settle down to marriage, but artists with real genius are too consumed by their work to fit that pattern. The dominant figure in the novel is Owen Jack, a musical genius, somewhat mad and quite bereft of social graces. From an abysmal beginning he rises to great fame and is lionized by socialites despite his unremitting crudity. As a study of Bohemia and its clash with conventional society, the novel is revealing of Shaw's belief that the true Artist has wholly different criteria than the ordinary person for the living of Life. Written as "a novel with a purpose," according to its author's preface, Love Among the Artists is an ironic novel with a serious intent. - Summary by Wikipedia, supplemented by Expatriate.

Release date: August 16, 2012

Publisher: John Murray Press

Print pages: 448

Sample

I

One fine afternoon during the Easter holidays, Kensington Gardens were in their freshest spring green, and the steps of the Albert Memorial dotted with country visitors, who alternately conned their guide-books and stared up at the golden gentleman under the shrine, trying to reconcile the reality with the description, whilst their Cockney friends, indifferent to shrine and statue, gazed idly at the fashionable drive below. One group in particular was composed of an old gentleman intent upon the Memorial, a young lady intent upon her guide-book, and a young gentleman intent upon the young lady. She looked a woman of force and intelligence; and her boldly curved nose and chin, elastic step, upright carriage, resolute bearing, and thick black hair, secured at the base of the neck by a broad crimson ribbon, made those whom her appearance pleased think her strikingly handsome. The rest thought her strikingly ugly; but she would perhaps have forgiven them for the sake of the implied admission that she was at least not commonplace; for her costume, consisting of an ample black cloak lined with white fur, and a broad hat with red feather and underbrim of sea green silk, was of the sort affected by women who strenuously cultivate themselves, and insist upon their individuality. She was not at all like her father, the grey-haired gentleman who, scanning the Memorial with eager watery eyes, was uttering occasional ejaculations of wonder at the sum it must have cost. The younger man, who might have been thirty or thereabout, was slight and of moderate stature. His fine hair, of a pale golden colour, already turning to a silvery brown, curled delicately over his temples, where it was beginning to wear away. A short beard set off his features, which were those of a man of exceptional sensitiveness and refinement. He was the Londoner of the party; and he waited with devoted patience whilst his companions satisfied their curiosity. It was pleasant to watch them; for he was not gloating over her, nor she too conscious that she was making the sunshine brighter for him; and yet they were quite evidently young lovers, and as happy as people at their age know how to be.

At last the old gentleman’s appetite for the Memorial yielded to the fatigue of standing on the stone steps and looking upwards. He proposed that they should find a seat and examine the edifice from a little distance.

‘I think I see a bench down there with only one person on it, Mary,’ he said, as they descended the steps at the west side. ‘Can you see whether he is respectable?’

The young lady, who was shortsighted, placed a pair of glasses on her salient nose, lifted her chin, and deliberately examined the person on the bench. He was a short, thick-chested young man, in an old creased frock coat, with a worn-out hat and no linen visible. His skin, pitted by smallpox, seemed grained with black, as though he had been lately in a coal-mine, and had not yet succeeded in towelling the coal-dust from his pores. He sat with his arms folded, staring at the ground before him. One hand was concealed under his arm: the other displayed itself, thick in the palm, with short fingers, and nails bitten to the quick. He was clean shaven, and had a rugged, resolute mouth, a short nose, marked nostrils, dark eyes, and black hair, which curled over his low, broad forehead.

‘He is certainly not a handsome man,’ said the lady; ‘but he will do us no harm, I suppose?’

‘Of course not,’ said the younger gentleman seriously. ‘But I can get some chairs, if you prefer them.’

‘Nonsense! I was only joking.’ As she spoke, the man on the bench looked up at her; and the moment she saw his eyes, she began to stand in some awe of him. His vague stare changed to a keen scrutiny, which she returned hardily. Then he looked for a moment at her dress; glanced at her companions; and relapsed into his former attitude.

The bench accommodated four persons easily. The old gentleman sat at the unoccupied end, next his daughter. Their friend placed himself between her and the man, at whom she presently stole another look. His attention was again aroused: this time he was looking at a child who was eating an apple near him. His expression gave the lady an uncomfortable sensation. The child, too, caught sight of him, and stopped eating to regard him mistrustfully. He smiled with grim good humour, and turned his eyes to the gravel once more.

‘It is certainly a magnificent piece of work, Herbert,’ said the old gentleman. ‘To you, as an artist, it must be a treat indeed. I don’t know enough about art to appreciate it properly. Bless us! And are all those knobs made of precious stones?’

‘More or less precious: yes, I believe so, Mr. Sutherland,’ said Herbert, smiling.

‘I must come and look at it again,’ said Mr. Sutherland, turning from the Memorial, and putting his spectacles on the bench beside him. ‘It is quite a study. I wish I had this business of Charlie’s off my mind.’

‘You will find a tutor for him without any difficulty,’ said Herbert. ‘There are hundreds to choose from in London.’

‘Yes; but if there were a thousand, Charlie would find a new objection to every one of them. You see the difficulty is the music.’

Herbert, incommoded by a sudden movement of the strange man, got a little nearer to Mary, and replied, ‘I do not think the music ought to present much difficulty. Many young men qualifying for holy orders are very glad to obtain private tutorships; and nowadays a clergyman is expected to have some knowledge of music.’

‘Yes,’ said the lady; ‘but what is the use of that when Charlie expressly objects to clergymen? I sympathize with him there, for once. Divinity students are too narrow and dogmatic to be comfortable to live with.’

‘There!’ exclaimed Mr. Sutherland, suddenly indignant: ‘you are beginning to make objections. Do you expect to get an angel from heaven to teach Charlie?’

‘No, papa; but I doubt if anything less will satisfy him.’

‘I will speak to some of my friends about it,’ said Herbert. ‘There is no hurry for a week or two, I suppose?’

‘Oh, no, none whatever,’ said Mr. Sutherland, ostentatiously serene after his outbreak: ‘there is no hurry certainly. But Charlie must not be allowed to contract habits of idleness; and if the matter cannot be settled to his liking, I shall exert my authority, and select a tutor myself. I cannot understand his objection to the man we saw at Archdeacon Downes’s. Can you, Mary?’

‘I can understand that Charlie is too lazy to work,’ said Mary. Then, as if tired of the subject, she turned to Herbert, and said, ‘You have not yet told us when we may come to your studio and see The Lady of Shalott. I am very anxious to see it. I shall not mind its being unfinished.’

‘But I shall,’ said Herbert, suddenly becoming self-conscious and nervous. ‘I fear the picture will disappoint you in any case; but at least I wish it to be as good as I can make it, before you see it. I must ask you to wait until Thursday.’

‘Certainly, if you like,’ said Mary earnestly. She was about to add something, when Mr. Sutherland, who had become somewhat restive when the conversation turned upon pictures, declared that he had sat long enough. So they rose to go; and Mary turned to get a last glimpse of the man. He was looking at them with a troubled expression; and his lips were white. She thought he was about to speak, and involuntarily retreated a step. But he said nothing: only she was struck, as he composed himself in his old attitude, by his extreme dejection.

‘Did you notice that man sitting next you?’ she whispered to Herbert, when they had gone a little distance.

‘Not particularly.’

‘Do you think he is very poor?’

‘He certainly does not appear to be very rich,’ said Herbert, looking back.

‘I saw a very odd look in his eyes. I hope he is not hungry.’

They stopped. Then Herbert walked slowly on. ‘I should think not so bad as that,’ he said. ‘I don’t think his appearance would justify me in offering him—’

‘Oh, dear, dear me!’ said Mr. Sutherland. ‘I am very stupid.’

‘What is the matter now, papa?’

‘I have lost my glasses. I must have left them on that seat. Just wait one moment whilst I go back for them. No, no, Herbert: I will go back myself. I recollect exactly where I laid them down. I shall be back in a moment.’

‘Papa always takes the most exact notes of the places in which he puts things; and he always leaves them behind him after all,’ said Mary. ‘There is that man in precisely the same position as when we first saw him.’

‘No. He is saying something to your father. Begging, I am afraid, or he would not stand up and lift his hat.’

‘How dreadful!’

Herbert laughed. ‘If, as you suspected, he is hungry, there is nothing very dreadful in it, poor fellow. It is natural enough.’

‘I did not mean that. I meant that it was dreadful to think of his being forced to beg. Papa has not given him anything – I wish he would. He evidently wants to get rid of him, and, of course, does not know how to do it. Let us go back.’

‘If you wish,’ said Herbert, reluctantly. ‘But I warn you that London is full of begging impostors.’

Meanwhile Mr. Sutherland, finding his spectacles where he had left them, took them up; wiped them with his handkerchief; and was turning away, when he found himself confronted by the strange man, who had risen.

‘Sir,’ said the man, raising his shabby hat, and speaking in a subdued voice of remarkable power: ‘I have been a tutor; and I am a musician. I can convince you that I am an honest and respectable man. I am in need of employment. Something I overheard just now leads me to hope that you can assist me. I will’— Here the man, though apparently self-possessed, stopped as if his breath had failed him.

Mr. Sutherland’s first impulse was to tell the stranger stiffly that he had no occasion for his services. But as there were no bystanders, and the man’s gaze was impressive, he became nervous, and said hastily ‘Oh, thank you: I have not decided what I shall do as yet.’ And he attempted to pass on.

The man immediately stepped aside, saying, ‘If you will favor me with your address, sir, I can send you testimonials which will prove that I have a right to seek such a place as you describe. If they do not satisfy you, I shall trouble you no further. Or if you will be so good as to accept my card, you can consider at your leisure whether to communicate with me or not.’

‘Certainly, I will take your card,’ said Mr. Sutherland, flurried and conciliatory. ‘Thank you. I can write to you, you know, if I—’

‘I am much obliged to you.’ Here he produced an ordinary visiting card, with the name ‘Mr. Owen Jack’ engraved, and an address at Church Street, Kensington, written in a crabbed but distinct hand in the corner. Whilst Mr. Sutherland was pretending to read it, his daughter came up, purse in hand, hurrying before Herbert, whose charity she wished to forestall. Mr. Owen Jack looked at her; and she hid her purse quickly. ‘I am sorry to have delayed you, sir,’ he said. ‘Good morning.’ He raised his hat again, and walked away.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Mr. Sutherland. ‘Lord bless me! that’s a cool fellow,’ he added, recovering himself, and beginning to feel ashamed of having been so courteous to a poorly dressed stranger.

‘What did he want, papa?’

‘Indeed, my dear, he has shown me that we cannot be too careful of how we talk before strangers in London. By the purest accident – the merest chance, I happened, whilst we were sitting here five minutes ago, to mention that we wanted a tutor for Charlie. This man was listening to us; and now he has offered himself for the place. Just fancy the quickness of that. Here is his card.’

‘Owen Jack!’ said Mary. ‘What a name!’

‘Did he overhear anything about the musical difficulty?’ said Herbert. ‘Nature does not seem to have formed Mr. Jack for the pursuit of a fine art.’

‘Yes: he caught up even that. According to his own account, he understands music – in fact he can do everything.’

Mary looked thoughtful. ‘After all,’ she said slowly, ‘he might suit us. He is certainly not handsome; but he does not seem stupid; and he would probably not want a large salary. I think Archdeacon Downes’s man’s terms are perfectly ridiculous.’

‘I am afraid it would be rather a dangerous experiment to give a responsible post to an individual whom we have chanced upon in a public park,’ said Herbert.

‘Oh! out of the question,’ said Mr. Sutherland. ‘I only took his card as the shortest way of getting rid of him. Perhaps I was wrong to do even that.’

‘Of course we should have to make inquiries,’ said Mary. ‘Somehow, I cannot get it out of my head that he is in very bad circumstances. He might be a gentleman. He does not look common.’

‘I agree with you so far,’ said Herbert. ‘And I am not sorry that such models are scarce. But of course you are quite right in desiring to assist this man, if he is unfortunate.’

‘Engaging a tutor is a very commonplace affair,’ said Mary; ‘but we may as well do some good by it if we can. Archdeacon Downes’s man is in no immediate want of a situation: he has dozens of offers to choose from. Why not give the place to whoever is in the greatest need of it?’

‘Very well,’ cried Mr. Sutherland. ‘Send after him and bring him home at once in a carriage and pair, since you have made up your mind not to hear to reason on the subject.’

‘After all,’ interposed Herbert, ‘it will do no harm to make a few inquiries. If you will allow me, I will take the matter in hand, so as to prevent all possibility of his calling on or disturbing you. Give me his card. I will write to him for his testimonials and references, and so forth; and if anything comes of it, I can then hand him over to you.’

Mary looked gratefully at him, and said, ‘Do, papa. Let Mr. Herbert write. It cannot possibly do any harm; and it will be no trouble to you.’

‘I do not object to the trouble,’ said Mr. Sutherland. ‘I have taken the trouble of coming up to London, all the way from Windsor, already, solely for Charlie’s sake. However, Herbert, perhaps you could manage the affair better than I. In fact, I should prefer to remain in the background. But then your time is valuable—’

‘It will cost me only a few minutes to write the necessary letters – minutes that would be no better spent in any case. I assure you it will be practically no trouble to me.’

‘There, papa. Now we have settled that point, let us go on to the National Gallery. I wish we were going to your studio instead.’

‘You must not ask for that yet,’ said Herbert earnestly. ‘I promise you a special private view of The Lady of Shalott on Thursday next at latest.’

II

Alton College, Lyvern.

Sir, – In answer to your letter of the 12th instant, I am instructed by Miss Wilson to inform you that Mr. Jack was engaged here for ten months as professor of music and elocution. At the end of that period he refused to impart any further musical instruction to three young ladies who desired a set of finishing lessons. He therefore considered himself bound to vacate his post, though Miss Wilson desires me to state expressly that she did not insist on that course. She has much pleasure in testifying to the satisfactory manner in which Mr. Jack maintained his authority in the school. He is an exacting teacher, but a patient and thoroughly capable one. During his stay at Alton College, his general conduct was irreproachable, and his marked personal influence gained for him the respect and good wishes of his pupils.

I am, sir, your obedient servant,

Phillis Ward, F.C.P., etc.

 

14 West Precinct, Lipport Cathedral, South Wales.

Sir, – Mr. Owen Jack is a native of this town, and was, in his boyhood, a member of the Cathedral Choir. He is respectably connected, and is personally known to me as a strictly honorable young man. He has musical talent of a certain kind, and is undoubtedly qualified to teach the rudiments of music, though he never, whilst under our guidance, gave any serious consideration to the higher forms of composition – more, I should add, from natural inaptitude than from want of energy and perseverance. I should be glad to hear of his obtaining a good position.

Yours truly,

John Burton, Mus. Doc., Ox.

 

These were the replies to the inquiries about Mr. Jack.

On Thursday afternoon Herbert stood before his easel, watching the light changing on his picture as the clouds shifted in the wind. At moments when the effect on the color pleased him, he wished that Mary would enter and see it so at her first glance. But as the afternoon wore, it became duller; and when she at last arrived, he felt sorry he had not appointed one o’clock instead of three. She was accompanied by a tall lad of sixteen, with light blue eyes, fair hair, and an expression of irreverent good humour.

‘How do you do?’ said Herbert. ‘Take care of those sketches, Charlie, old fellow. They are wet.’

‘Papa felt very tired: he thought it best to lie down for a little,’ said Mary, throwing off her cloak and appearing in a handsome dress of marmalade-coloured silk. ‘He leaves the arrangements with Mr. Jack to you. I suspect the dread of having to confront that mysterious stranger again had something to do with his fatigue. Is The Lady of Shalott ready to be seen?’

‘The light is bad, I am sorry to say,’ said Herbert, lingering whilst Mary made a movement towards the easel.

‘Don’t push into the room like that, Mary,’ said Charlie. ‘Artists always have models in their studios. Give the young lady time to dress herself.’

‘There is a gleam of sunshine now,’ said Herbert, gravely ignoring the lad. ‘Better have your first look at it while it lasts.’

Mary placed herself before the easel, and gazed earnestly at it, finding that expression the easiest mask for a pang of disappointment which followed her first glance at the canvas. Herbert did not interrupt her for some moments. Then he said in a low voice: ‘You understand her action, do you not?’

‘Yes. She has just seen the reflexion of Lancelot’s figure in the mirror; and she is turning round to look at the reality.’

‘She has a deuce of a scraggy collar-bone,’ said Charlie.

‘Oh, hush, Charlie,’ cried Mary, dreading that her brother might roughly express her own thoughts. ‘It seems quite right to me.’

‘The action of turning to look over her shoulder brings out the clavicle,’ said Herbert, smiling. ‘It is less prominent in the picture than it would be in nature: I had to soften it a little.’

‘Why didn’t you paint her in some other attitude?’ said Charlie.

‘Because I happened to be aiming at the seizure of a poetic moment, and not at the representation of a pretty bust, my critical young friend,’ said Herbert quietly. ‘I think you are a little too close to the canvas, Miss Sutherland. Remember: the picture is not quite finished.’

‘She can’t see anything unless she is close to it,’ said Charlie. ‘In fact, she never can get close enough, because her nose is longer than her sight. I don’t understand that window up there above the woman’s head. In reality there would be nothing to see through it except the sky. But there is a river, and flowers, and a man from the Lord Mayor’s show. Are they up on a mountain?’

‘Charlie, please stop. How can you be so rude?’

‘Oh, I am accustomed to criticism,’ said Herbert. ‘You are a born critic, Charlie, since you cannot distinguish a mirror from a window. Have you never read your Tennyson?’

‘Read Tennyson! I should think not. What sensible man would wade through the adventures of King Arthur and his knights? One would think that Don Quixote had put a stop to that style of nonsense. Who was the Lady of Shalott? One of Sir Lancelot’s, or Sir Galahad’s, or Sir Somebodyelse’s young women, I suppose.’

‘Do not mind him, Mr. Herbert. It is pure affectation. He knows perfectly well.’

‘I don’t,’ said Charlie; ‘and what’s more, I don’t believe you know either.’

‘The Lady of Shalott,’ said Herbert, ‘had a task to perform; and whilst she was at work upon it, she was, on pain of a curse, only to see the outer world as it was reflected by a mirror which hung above her head. One day, Sir Lancelot rode by; and when she saw his image she forgot the curse and turned to look at him.’

‘Very interesting and sensible,’ said Charlie. ‘Why mightn’t she as well have looked at the world straight off out of the window, as seen it left handed in a mirror? The notion of a woman spending her life making a Turkey carpet is considered poetic, I suppose. What happened when she looked round?’

‘Ah, I see you are interested. Nothing happened, except that the mirror broke and the lady died.’

‘Yes, and then got into a boat; rowed herself down to Hampton Court into the middle of a water party; and arranged her corpse in an attitude for the benefit of Lancelot. I’ve seen a picture of that.’

‘I see you do know something about Tennyson. Now, Miss Sutherland, what is your honest opinion?’

‘I think it is beautiful. The colouring seemed rather dull to me at first, because I had been thinking of the river bank, the golden grain, the dazzling sun, the gorgeous loom, the armour of Sir Lancelot, instead of the Lady herself. But now that I have grasped your idea, there is a certain sadness and weakness about her that is very pathetic.’

‘Do you think the figure is weak?’ said Herbert dubiously.

‘Not really weak,’ replied Mary hastily. ‘I mean that the weakness proper to her story is very touchingly expressed.’

‘She means that it is too sober and respectable for her,’ said Charlie. ‘She likes screaming colours. If you had dressed the lady in red and gold; painted the Turkey carpet in full bloom; and made Lancelot like a sugar stick, she would have liked it better. That armour, by the bye, would be the better for a rub of emery paper.’

‘Armour is hard to manage, particularly in distance,’ said Herbert. ‘Here I had to contend with the additional difficulty of not making the reflexion in the mirror seem too real.’

‘You seem to have got over that pretty successfully,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘There is a certain unreality about the landscape and the figure in armour that I hardly understood at first. The more I strive to exercise my judgment upon art, the more I feel my ignorance. I wish you would always tell me when I make foolish comments. There is someone knocking, I think.’

‘It is only the housekeeper,’ said Herbert, opening the door.

‘Mr. Jack, sir,’ said the housekeeper.

‘Dear me! we must have been very late,’ said Mary. ‘It is four o’clock. Now Charlie, pray behave like a gentleman.’

‘I suppose he had better come in here,’ said Herbert. ‘Or would you rather not meet him?’

‘Oh, I must meet him. Papa told me particularly to speak to him myself.’

Mr. Jack was accordingly shewn in by the housekeeper. This time, he displayed linen – a clean collar; and he carried a new hat. He made a formal bow, and looked at the artist and his guests, who became a little nervous.

‘Good evening, Mr. Jack,’ said Herbert. ‘I see you got my letter.’

‘You are Mr. Herbert?’ said Jack, in his resonant voice, which, in the lofty studio, had a bright, close quality like the middle notes of a trumpet. Herbert nodded. ‘You are not the gentleman to whom I spoke on Saturday?’

‘No. Mr. Sutherland is not well; and I am acting for him. This is the young gentleman whom I mentioned to you.’

Charlie blushed, and grinned. Then, seeing a humorous wrinkling in the stranger’s face, he stepped forward and offered him his hand. Jack shook it heartily. ‘I shall get on very well with you,’ he said, ‘if you think you will like me as a tutor.’

‘Charlie never works,’ said Mary: ‘that is his great failing, Mr. Jack.’

‘You have no right to say that,’ said Charlie, reddening. ‘How do you know whether I work or not? I can make a start with Mr. Jack without being handicapped by your amiable recommendation.’

‘This is Miss Sutherland,’ said Herbert, interposing quickly. ‘She is the mistress of Mr. Sutherland’s household; and she will explain to you how you will be circumstanced as regards your residence with the family.’

Jack bowed again. ‘I should like to know, first, at what studies this young gentleman requires my assistance.’

‘I want to learn something about music – about the theory of music, you know,’ said Charlie; ‘and I can grind at anything else you like.’

‘His general education must not be sacrificed to the music,’ said Mary anxiously.

‘Oh! don’t you be afraid of my getting off too easily,’ said Charlie. ‘I dare say Mr. Jack knows his business without being told it by you.’

‘Pray don’t interrupt me, Charlie. I wish you would go into the next room and look at the sketches. I shall have to arrange matters with Mr. Jack which do not concern you.’

‘Very well,’ said Charlie, sulkily. ‘I don’t want to interfere with your arrangements; but don’t you interfere with mine. Let Mr. Jack form his own opinion of me; and keep yours to yourself.’ Then he left the studio.

‘If there is to be any serious study of music – I understood from Mr. Herbert that your young brother desires to make it his profession – other matters must give place to it,’ said Jack bluntly. ‘A little experience will shew us the best course to take with him.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary. After hesitating a moment she added timidly, ‘Then you are willing to undertake his instruction?’

‘I am willing, so far,’ said Jack.

Mary looked nervously at Herbert, who smiled, and said, ‘Since we are satisfied on that point, the only remaining question, I presume, is one of terms.’

‘Sir,’ said Jack abruptly, ‘I hate business and know nothing about it. Therefore excuse me if I put my terms in my own way. If I am to live with Mr. Sutherland at Windsor, I shall want, besides food and lodging, a reasonable time to myself every day, with permission to use Miss Sutherland’s piano when I can do so without disturbing anybody, and money enough to keep me decently clothed, and not absolutely penniless. I will say thirty-five pounds a year.’

‘Thirty-five pounds a year,’ repeated Herbert. ‘To confess the truth, I am not a man of business myself; but that seems quite reasonable.’

‘Oh, quite,’ said Mary. ‘I think papa would not mind giving more.’

‘It is enough for me,’ said Jack, with something like a suppressed chuckle at Mary’s simplicity. ‘Or, I will take a church organ in the neighbourhood, if you can procure it for me, in lieu of salary.’

‘I think we had better adhere to the usual arrangement,’ said Herbert. Jack nodded, and said, ‘I have no further conditions to make.’

‘Do you wish to say anything?’ said Herbert, looking inquiringly at Mary.

‘No, I—I think not. I thought Mr. Jack would like to know something of our domestic arrangements.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jack curtly, ‘I need not trouble you. If your house does not suit me, I can complain, or leave it.’ He paused, and then added more courteously, ‘You may reassure yourself as to my personal comfort, Miss Sutherland. I am well used to greater privation than I am likely to suffer with you.’

Mary had nothing more to say. Herbert coughed and turned his ring round a few times upon his finger. Jack stood motionless, and looked very ugly.

‘Although Mr. Sutherland has left this matter altogether in my hands,’ said Herbert at last, ‘I hardly like to conclude it myself. He is staying close by, in Onslow Gardens. Would you mind calling on him now? If you will allow me, I will give you a note to the effect that our interview has been a satisfactory one.’ Jack bowed. ‘Excuse me for one moment. My writing materials are in the next room. I will say a word or two to Charlie, and send him in to you.’

There was a mirror in the room, which Herbert had used as a model. It was so placed that Mary could see the image of the new tutor’s face, as, being now alone with her, he looked for the first time at the picture. A sudden setting of his mouth and derisive twinkle in his eye showed that he found something half ludicrous, half contemptible, in the work; and she, observing this, felt hurt, and began to repent having engaged him. Then the expression softened to one of compassion; he sighed as he turned away from the easel. Before she could speak Charlie entered, saying:

‘I am to go back with you to Onslow Gardens, Mr. Jack, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, no, Charlie: you must stay with me,’ said Mary.

‘Don’t be alarmed: Adrian is going on to the Museum with you directly; and the housekeeper is here to do propriety. I have no particular fancy for lounging about that South Kensington crockery shop with you; and, besides, Mr. Jack does not know his way to Jermyn’s. Here is Adrian.’

Herbert came in, and handed a note to the tutor, who took it; nodded briefly to them; and went out with Charlie.

‘That is certainly the ugliest man I ever saw,’ said Herbert. ‘I think he has got the better of us, too. We are a pretty pair to transact business.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary, laughing. ‘He said he was not a man of business; but I wonde