value of colour, were quite in Clouet's style; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that hung somewhat formally from the marble pedestal had that hard severity of touch—so different from the facile grace of the Italians—which even at the Court of France the great Flemish master never completely lost, and which in itself has always been a characteristic of the northern temper.
"It is a charming thing," I cried; "but who is this wonderful young man whose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?"
"This is the portrait of Mr W. H.," said Erskine, with a sad smile. It might have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed to me that his eyes were swimming with tears.
"Mr W. H.!" I repeated; "who was Mr W. H.?"
"Don't you remember?" he answered; "look at the book on which his hand is resting."
"I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out," I replied.
"Take this magnifying-glass and try," said Erskine, with the same sad smile still playing about his mouth.
