'Wasn't there something about a picture? Yes; you painted her portrait.'
'Many times,' said the artist; 'and she may very well have been ashamed of what I made of her.'
'Well, I wasn't, my dear sir; it was the sight of that picture, which you were so good as to present to her, that made me first fall in love with her.'
'Do you mean that one with the children—cutting bread and butter?'
'Bread and butter? Bless me, no—vine leaves and a leopard skin—a kind of Bacchante.'
'Ah, yes,' said Lyon; 'I remember. It was the first decent portrait I painted. I should be curious to see it to-day.'
'Don't ask her to show it to you—she'll be mortified!' the Colonel exclaimed.
'Mortified?'
'We parted with it—in the most disinterested manner,' he laughed. 'An old friend of my wife's—her family had known him intimately when they lived in Germany—took the most extraordinary fancy to it: the Grand Duke of Silberstadt-Schreckenstein, don't you know? He came out to Bombay while we were there and he spotted your picture (you know he's one of the greatest collectors in Europe), and made such eyes at it that, upon my word—it happened to be his birthday—she told him he might have it, to get rid of him. He was perfectly enchanted—but we miss the picture.'