Sylvesters' house, No. 137, Park Street, West, a mansion of
unpretending size, glorious in its summer coat of white paint,
relieved only by the turquoise-blue tiles which surrounded the
window-boxes, and the darker blue of the railings and front-door. He
was calling ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring how Charles
Sylvester liked the frame which he had selected for the
recently-finished portrait; really in order to induce her brother to
allow Eve to sit to him. Sounds as of discussion floated down the
wide staircase; and when the servant opened the drawing-room door
preparatory to announcing him, Lightmark heard--and it startled
him--a well-remembered voice upraised in playful protest.

"No, 'pon my word, Mrs. Sylvester, my young scamp of a nephew hasn't
done you justice, 'pon my soul he hasn't."

At first he felt almost inclined to turn tail; though he had long
been aware that the Sylvesters were cognisant of his relationship to
the somewhat notorious old Colonel, and that they knew him, as
everyone did, he had never contemplated the possibility of meeting
his uncle there.

And when he had shaken hands in a bewildered manner with Mrs.
Sylvester and Eve, he perceived that his uncle was greeting him with
an almost paternal cordiality.

"Why, Dick, my boy, 'pon my soul I haven't seen you for an age! You
mustn't neglect your gouty old uncle, you know, Dick; when are you
going to paint his portrait, in review order, eh? Not until you've
painted Miss Eve here, I'll be bound."