The story of that poor girl, that clergyman's daughter, for instance--could anything have been more insolent--more cruel?
Doris burned to avenge her.
Suddenly--a great clatter and noise in the passage leading from the small house behind to the studio and garden.
"Here she is!" Uncle Charles sprang up, and reached the studio door just as a shower of knocks descended upon it from outside.

He opened it, and on the threshold there stood two persons; a stout lady in white, surmounted by a huge black hat with a hearse-like array of plumes; and, behind her, a tall and willowy youth, with--so far as could be seen through the chinks of the hat--a large nose, fair hair, pale blue eyes, and a singular deficiency of chin.

He carried in his arms a tiny black Spitz with a pink ribbon round its neck.
The lady looked, frowning, into the interior of the studio.

She held in her hand a very large fan, with the handle of which she had been rapping the door; and the black feathers with which she was canopied seemed to be nodding in her eyes.
"Maestro, you are not alone!" she said in a deep, reproachful voice.
"My niece, Mrs.Meadows--Madame Vavasour," said Bentley, ushering in the new-comer.
Doris turned from her easel and bowed, only to receive a rather scowling response.
"And your friend ?" As he spoke the artist looked blandly at the young man.
"I brought him to amuse me, Maestro.

When I am dull my countenance changes, and you cannot do it justice.