Chapter 1

Mrs. Munden had not yet been to my studio on so good a pretext as when she
first intimated that it would be quite open to me--should I only care, as
she called it, to throw the handkerchief--to paint her beautiful sister-in-
law. I needn't go here more than is essential into the question of Mrs.
Munden, who would really, by the way, be a story in herself. She has a
manner of her own of putting things, and some of those she has put to me--!
Her implication was that Lady Beldonald hadn't only seen and admired
certain examples of my work, but had literally been prepossessed in favour
of the painter's "personality." Had I been struck with this sketch I might
easily have imagined her ladyship was throwing me the handkerchief. "She
hasn't done," my visitor said, "what she ought."

"Do you mean she has done what she oughtn't?"

"Nothing horrid--ah dear no." And something in Mrs. Munden's tone, with
the way she appeared to muse a moment, even suggested to me that what she
"oughtn't" was perhaps what Lady Beldonald had too much neglected. "She
hasn't got on."

"What's the matter with her?"

"Well, to begin with, she's American."

"But I thought that was the way of ways to get on."

"It's one of them. But it's one of the ways of being awfully out of it
too. There are so many!"

"So many Americans?" I asked.

"Yes, plenty of THEM," Mrs. Munden sighed. "So many ways, I mean, of being
one."

"But if your sister-in-law's way is to be beautiful--?"

"Oh there are different ways of that too."

"And she hasn't taken the right way?"

"Well," my friend returned as if it were rather difficult to express, "she
hasn't done with it--"

"I see," I laughed; "what she oughtn't!"

Mrs. Munden in a manner corrected me, but it WAS difficult to express. "My
brother at all events was certainly selfish. Till he died she was almost
never in London; they wintered, year after year, for what he supposed to be
his health--which it didn't help, since he was so much too soon to meet his
end--in the south of France and in the dullest holes he could pick out, and
when they came back to England he always kept her in the country. I must
say for her that she always behaved beautifully. Since his death she has
been more in London, but on a stupidly unsuccessful footing. I don't think
she quite understands. She hasn't what I should call a life. It may be of
course that she doesn't want one. That's just what I can't exactly find
out. I can't make out how much she knows."

"I can easily make out," I returned with hilarity, "how much YOU do!"

"Well, you're very horrid. Perhaps she's too old."

"Too old for what?" I persisted.

"For anything. Of course she's no