off his back, but after his purchase of the portrait I tried to cultivate a new faith.  The girl’s own faith was wonderful.  It couldn’t however be contagious:  too great was the limit of her sense of what painters call values.  Her colours were laid on like blankets on a cold night.  How indeed could a person speak the truth who was always posturing and bragging?  She was after all vulgar enough, and by the time I had mastered her profile and could almost with my eyes shut do it in a single line I was decidedly tired of its “purity,” which affected me at last as inane.  One moved with her, moreover, among phenomena mismated and unrelated; nothing in her talk ever matched anything out of it.  Lord Iffield was dying of love for her, but his family was leading him a life.  His mother, horrid woman, had told some one that she would rather he should be swallowed by a tiger than marry a girl not absolutely one of themselves.  He had given his young friend unmistakable signs, but was lying low, gaining time:  it was in his father’s power to be, both in personal and in pecuniary ways, excessively nasty to him.  His father wouldn’t last for ever—­quite the contrary; and he knew how thoroughly, in spite of her youth, her beauty and the swarm of her admirers, some of them positively threatening in their passion, he could trust her to hold out.  There were richer, cleverer men, there were greater personages too, but she liked her “little viscount” just as he was, and liked to think that, bullied and persecuted, he had her there so gratefully to rest upon.  She came back to me with tale upon tale, and it all might be or mightn’t.  I never met my pretty model in the world—­she moved, it appeared, in exalted circles—­and could only admire, in her wealth of illustration, the grandeur of her life and the freedom of her hand.

I had on the first opportunity spoken to her of Geoffrey Dawling, and she had listened to my story so far as she had the art of such patience, asking me indeed more questions about him than I could answer; then she had capped my anecdote with others much more striking, the disclosure of effects produced in the most extraordinary quarters:  on people who had followed her into railway carriages; guards and porters even who had literally stuck there; others who had spoken to her in shops and hung about her house door; cabmen, upon her honour, in London, who, to gaze their fill at her, had found excuses to thrust their petrifaction through the very glasses of four-wheelers.  She lost herself in these reminiscences, the moral of which was that poor Mr. Dawling was only one of a million.  When therefore the next autumn she flourished into my studio with her odd companion at her heels her first care was to make clear to me that if he was now in servitude it wasn’t because she had run after him.  Dawling explained with a hundred grins that when one wished very much to get anything one usually ended by doing so—­a proposition