had died unuttered on my tongue, just as words die into silence in
the presence of a somnambulist.

"Why am I specially necessary?" I said, smiling, as we stood in
front of the easel. "Will you let me paint you as Hyacinthus?" I
went into a fit of laughter. "My dear girl! anything to oblige you,
but consider," I said, looking down into her eager eyes; "you ought
not to have a model of six-and-twenty. Hyacinthus was probably
sixteen."

"You don't know how old he was!" she said, mockingly, her azure,
sunny eyes lighting up with laughter, too, as she leant on the
bending maul-stick and looked up at me.

"No, I don't know," I answered; "but I can infer it. If we only went
upon what we actually know we should not go very far."

"Well, he might have been as much as nineteen, and you don't look
quite six-and-twenty; and the remaining difference I can soften
down. Have you any other excuse to make to get out of the bother of
sitting?"

"You are a horrid little wretch to put it like that," I answered,
"and I won't say another word of advice. Paint your Greek youth as
you please. Of course, you'll give him this mustache with waxed
ends? It's very appropriate!"

"No; of course I shan't. Now, Victor, do be sensible. You can be so
nice at times!"