foolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only legacy I ever received in my life."
"What was that?" I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and going over to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding in his hand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat tarnished Elizabethan frame.
It was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenth-century costume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting on an open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was of quite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhat effeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closely cropped hair, one would have said that the face, with its dreamy wistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a girl. In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the picture reminded one of François Clouet's later work. The black velvet doublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the peacock-blue background against which it showed up so pleasantly, and from which it gained such luminous 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 quite bright with tears.
"Mr W. H.!" I exclaimed; "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 month.
I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began to spell out the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. "To the onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets." … "Good heavens!" I cried, "is this Shakespeare's Mr W. H.?"
"Cyril Graham used to say so," muttered Erskine.
"But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke," 1 answered. "I know the Penshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few weeks ago.
"Do you really believe then that the Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke?" he asked.
"I am sure of it," I answered. "Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs Mary Fitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is no doubt at all about it."
"Well, I agree with you," said Erskine, "but I did not always think so. I used to believe—well, I suppose I used to believe in Cyril Graham and his theory."
"And what was that?" I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait, which had already begun to have a strange fascination for me.
"It is a long story," said Erskine, taking the picture away from me—rather abruptly I thought at the
