"What is it?"
Lord Leycester laughed his rare laugh.
"I am trembling in my shoes," he said. "My tongue cleaves to my mouth with nervousness——"
The old painter glanced round at him, and his face relaxed into a smile as his eyes rested on the bold, handsome face and easy grace of the speaker.
"Yes, you look excessively frightened," he said. "What is it?"
It was noticeable that, excepting in his first greeting, the old man had not given him the benefit of his title; he had known him when Leycester had been a boy, running in and out of the cottage, always followed by a pack of dogs, and generally doing some mischief.
"I want you to do a little scene for me."
The old man groaned and looked at his picture firmly.
"You know the glade in the woods opening out opposite the small island. I want you to paint it."
"I am sorry," began the old man.