"I pitched into your treasures—I rummaged among your canvases," Peter said. "Biddy had nothing whatever to do with it—she maintained an attitude of irreproachable reserve. It has been on my conscience all these days, and I ought to have done penance before. I have been putting it off partly because I am so ashamed of my indiscretion. Que voulez-vous, my dear Nick? My provocation was great. I heard you had been painting Miss Rooth, so that I couldn't restrain my curiosity. I simply went into that corner and struck out there—a trifle wildly, no doubt. I dragged the young lady to the light—your sister turned pale as she saw me. It was a good deal like breaking open one of your letters, wasn't it? However, I assure you it's all right, for I congratulate you both on your style and on your correspondent."
"You're as clever, as witty, as humorous as ever, old boy," Nick rejoined, going himself into the corner designated by his companion and laying his hands on the same canvas. "Your curiosity is the highest possible tribute to my little attempt, and your sympathy sets me right with myself. There is she again," Nick went on, thrusting the picture into an empty frame; "you shall see her whether you wish to or not."
"Right with yourself? You don't mean to say you've been wrong!" Sherringham returned, standing opposite the portrait.
"Oh, I don't know; I've been kicking up such a row; anything is better than a row."
"She's awfully good—she's awfully true," said Sherringham. "You've done more to it, since the other day; you've put in several things."
"Yes, but I've worked distractedly. I've not altogether
