“Not at all.  She is not a model.  She is a young lady who teaches by correspondence.  She is my tutor—­of course I have so often talked to you about her—­who taught me the science of Heraldry, and wrote me such charming letters.”

“Your tutor!  You said your tutor was an old gentleman.”

“So I thought, Clara.  But I was wrong.  My tutor is a young lady, and this is her portrait, half-finished.  It does not do her any kind of justice.”

“A young lady!” She looked suspiciously at Arnold, whose telltale cheek flushed.  “A young lady!  Indeed!  And you have made her acquaintance.”

“As you see, Clara; and she does me the honor to let me paint her portrait.”

“What is her name, Arnold?”

“She is a Miss Aglen.”

“Strange.  The Deserets once intermarried with the Aglens.  I wonder if she is any connection.  They were Warwickshire Aglens.  But it is impossible—­a teacher by correspondence, a mere private governess!  Who are her people?”

“She lives with her grandfather.  I think her father was a tutor or journalist of some kind, but he is dead; and her grandfather keeps a second-hand bookshop in the King’s Road close by.”

“A bookshop!  But you said, Arnold, that she was a young lady.”

“So she is, Clara,” he replied simply.

“Arnold!” for the first time in his life Arnold saw his cousin angry with him.  She was constantly being angry with other people, but never before had she been angry with him.  “Arnold, spare me this nonsense.  If you have been playing with this shop-girl I cannot help it, and I beg that you will tell me no more about it, and do not, to my face, speak of her as a lady.”

“I have not been playing with her, I think,” said Arnold gravely; “I have been very serious with her.”

“Everybody nowadays is a young lady.  The girl who gives you a cup of tea in a shop; the girl who dances in the ballet; the girl who makes your dresses.”

“In that case, Clara, you need not mind my calling Miss Aglen a young lady.”

“There is one word left, at least:  women of my class are gentlewomen.”

“Miss Aglen is a gentlewoman.”

“Arnold, look me in the face.  My dear boy, tell me, are you mad?  Oh, think of my poor unhappy Claude, what he did, and what he must have suffered!”

“I know what he did.  I do not know what he suffered.  My case, however, is different from his.  I am not engaged to any one.”

“Arnold, think of the great scheme of life I have drawn out for you.  My dear boy, would you throw that all away?”

She laid her hands upon his arm and looked in his eyes with a pitiful gaze.  He took her hands in his.

“My dear, every man must shape his life for himself, or must live out the life shaped for him by his fate, not by his friends.  What if I see a life more delightful to me than that of which you dream?”

“You talk of a delightful life, Arnold; I spoke of an honorable career.”