“Oh, he’s not at all the person. He’s much too dark, you see,” answered Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness.
“There’s Alfred Dinks,” said Lawrence Newt, smiling.
“Pish!” said Arthur, conclusively.
“Really, I can not think of any body,” returned his companion, with a mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist was evidently very closely occupied with the composition of his picture. He half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said,
“I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with a rich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting into passion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenly scornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendid picture!”
Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescending Diana. The artist’s face was a little raised as he spoke, as if he saw a stately vision. It was rapt in the intensity of fancy, and Lawrence knew perfectly well that he saw Hope Wayne’s Endymion before him. But at the same moment his eye fell upon his nephew Abel sitting with a choice company of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievous twinkle in Lawrence Newt’s eye.
“Eureka! I have Endymion.”
Arthur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Newt had suddenly told him of Miss Wayne’s engagement. He came instantly out of the clouds on Latinos, where he was dreaming.
“What did you say?” asked he.
“Why, of course, how dull I am! Abel will be your Endymion, if you can get him.”