Aunt Letitia had been spending the afternoon gossiping with her maid, and that trusted servant had let fall Mr. Richard Wilson’s name into her mistress’s pensive ear. The four syllables had suddenly struck some rusty note of by-gone scandal in the dowager’s brain. “Wilson! Wilson! Yes, to be sure, there used to be a painter fellow in town of that name. She had not heard him spoken of lately, though some of the gentry had sat to him for their portraits years ago. Wait! Could this be the Mr. Richard Wilson concerning whom a merry tale had been spun one season in the fashionable seats? Sir Peter Hardacre had had a house in town seven years or so ago, before economy had been forced like a bolus down the poor baronet’s throat.” The Lady Letitia had knitted her brows over these curious and interesting reminiscences. She had determined to discover more about Mr. Richard Wilson and his past that evening. Hence her amazing and gracious affability to that honest but slovenly individual, an affability that made Mr. Wilson expand his chest, set his shabby wig straight, and imagine that there was yet hope for him in the world of Mammon.
“You have been long abroad, sir, I believe?” said the dowager, sweetly, after drawing the painter into a discussion on Italian art.
“You painted many clever portraits in town some seasons ago.”
Mr. Wilson bowed in his chair, and was flattered to hear my lady had so kindly a memory.
“I was honored at one time, madam,” he said, stroking his broad chin, “by the presence of certain of the beauties of the fashionable world in my studio. Yes, madam, I painted Sir Toby Gilhooly and his lovely daughters; Mr. Walsh, the poet; Admiral Timberbuck, and many others, madam.”
The Lady Letitia twinkled, and exhaled perfumes. Her nephew was engaged at the other end of the table in a scholarly debate on Roman architecture with Dr. Sugg. The lad had desisted from fathering Richard Wilson, and was delighted to see that his aunt showed the poor fellow so much favor.
“Did you ever paint Sir Peter Hardacre, Mr. Wilson?” asked the old lady, innocent as a paschal lamb.
The painter darted a look at her, flushed, and began to fidget in his chair.
“Yes, sir. I thought I remembered seeing the picture—”