"I don't know. I asked dad what they did, and he said he believed that one composed poetry and that the other wrote tragedies."
"Wouldn't you like Frank to see Sir James's painting of you?" interposed the voice of Mrs. Vandeleur.
The girl sprang to her feet.
"Fancy my forgetting! It's finished at last. It's in the dining-room at present. Come along. But don't expect much. It's not a bit nice; it's really ugly."
And indeed, on beholding the celebrated portrait-painter's production, Frank's loud exclamations of surprise and disdain were as profuse as the most disappointed of sitters could desire.
"Isn't your dad annoyed?" he demanded at length.
"Indeed, he's really vexed. He is paying so highly for it too. You remember the one of my mother that hangs in his study? That was done when she was seventeen, and he thought it would be so nice to have a companion one of his only kiddie at the same age. He wouldn't have minded the big price in the least if the picture had been satisfactory. This has been altered ever so many times, and now Sir James has got tired, and swears it is exactly like me; but it isn't, is it?"
"The old boy must be getting in his dotage. Now, I could paint you just beautifully, I'm sure. You would be such a jolly subject. I say!"
"What?"
Pallister glanced round to make sure that Mrs. Vandeleur was safely out of earshot.