"Still your picture—always the same,
grow as old as I may."

"But are you sure it is clear in every part?
Are there no doubtful lines, no unfinished
corners anywhere? I have not altered yet,
since you saw me—I am just what I was a
year ago. Suppose I asked you what I am
like now, could you tell me without making
a mistake?"

"Try me."

"May I? You shall be put through a
complete catechism! I don't tire you sitting
on your knee, do I? Well, in the first place,
how tall am I when we both stand up side
by side?"

"You are just up to my ear."

"Quite right, to begin with. Now for the
next question. What does my hair look like
in your portrait?"

"It is dark brown—there is a great deal of
it—and it grows rather too low on your forehead
for the taste of some people—"

"Never mind about 'some people,' does
it grow too low for your taste?"

"Certainly not. I like it to grow low; I
like all those little natural waves that it
makes against your forehead; I like it taken
back, as you wear it, in plain bands which
leave your ears and your cheeks visible;
and, above all things, I like that big glossy
knot that it makes where it is all gathered
up together at the back of your head."

"O, Lenny, how well you remember me,
so far! Now go a little lower."

"A little lower is down to your eyebrows.
They are very nicely-shaped eyebrows in my
picture—"

"Yes, but they have a fault. Come! tell
me what the fault is?"

"They are not quite so strongly marked as
they might be."

"Right again! And my eyes?"

"Brown eyes, large eyes, wakeful eyes,
that are always looking about them. Eyes
that can be very soft at one time, and very
bright at another. Eyes tender and clear, just
as the present moment, but capable, on very
slight provocation, of opening rather too
widely and looking rather too brilliantly
resolute."

"Mind you don't make them look so now!
What is there below the eyes?"

"A nose that is not quite big enough to be
in proper proportion with them. A nose
that has a slight tendency to be—"

"Don't say the horrid English word!
Spare my feelings by putting it in French.
Say retroussé, and skip over my nose as fast
as possible."

"I must stop at the mouth, then, and own
that it is as near perfection as possible. The
lips are lovely in shape, fresh in colour, and
irresistible in expression. They smile in my
portrait, and I am sure they are smiling at
me now."

"How could they do otherwise when they
are getting so much praise? My vanity
whispers to me that I had better stop the
catechism here. If I talk about my
complexion, I shall only hear that it is of the
dusky sort; and that there is never red
enough in it, except when I am walking,
or riding, or confused, or angry. If
I risk a question about my figure, I shall
receive the dreadful answer, 'You are
dangerously inclined to be fat.' If I say, how
do I dress? I shall be told, not soberly
enough; you are as fond as a child of gay
colours—No! I will venture no more questions.
But, vanity apart, Lenny, I am so
glad, so proud, so happy to find that you can
keep the image of me clearly in your mind.
I shall do my best now to look and dress like
your last remembrance of me. My love of
loves! I will do you credit—I will try if I
can't make you envied for your wife. You
deserve a hundred thousand kisses for saying
your catechism so well—and there they
are!"

While Mrs. Frankland was conferring the
reward of merit on her husband, the sound
of a faint, small, courteously-significant
cough, made itself timidly audible in a corner
of the room. Turning round instantly with
the quickness that characterised all her
actions, Mrs. Frankland, to her horror and
indignation, confronted Miss Mowlem standing
just inside the door with a letter in her hand,
and a blush of sentimental agitation on her
simpering face.

"You wretch! how dare you come in without
knocking at the door?" cried Rosamond,
starting to her feet with a stamp, and passing
in an instant from the height of fondness to
the height of passion.

Miss Mowlem shook guiltily before the
bright, angry eyes that looked through and
through her, turned very pale, held out the
letter apologetically, and said in her meekest
tones that she was very sorry.

"Sorry!" exclaimed Rosamond, getting
even more irritated by the apology than she
had been by the intrusion, and showing it by
another stamp; "who cares whether you are
sorry or no? I don't want your sorrow—I
won't have it. I never was so insulted in my
life—never, you mean, prying, inquisitive
creature!"

"Rosamond! Rosamond! pray don't forget
yourself!" interposed the quiet voice of Mr.
Frankland.

"Lenny, dear, I can't help it! That
creature would drive a saint mad. She has
been prying after us ever since we have been
here—you have, you ill-bred indelicate
woman! I suspected it before—I am certain
of it now! Must we lock our doors to keep
you out?—we won't lock our doors! Fetch
the bill! We give you warning. Mr. Frankland
gives you warning—don't you, Lenny?
I'll pack up all your things, dear; she shan't
touch one of them. Go down-stairs and make
out your bill, and give your mother warning.
Mr. Franklaud says he won't have his rooms