With the beginning of a new term two very important events happened in Lorraine's little world. Mervyn was sent to Redfern College, and Morland went into training. Mervyn's exodus² was really somewhat of a relief, for he had been getting rather out of hand lately, and had waxed so obstreperous³ on occasion that his father had decided⁴ to pack him off at once for a taste of the discipline of a public school. Morland, who was now eighteen, went away in high spirits. On the whole he was tired of lounging about at home. He had reached the age when the boy is passing into manhood, and begins to think of making his own way in the world. All kinds of shadowy pictures of the future were floating in his mental vision, day dreams of brave deeds and great achievements, and laurel wreaths to be won by hands that had the luck to pluck them. His eyes were shining as he bade Lorraine good-bye.  
"You must have thought me rather a slacker sometimes," he said. "But really there wasn't anything to urge a fellow on at home. Perhaps [197]I'll tumble into my own niche⁵ some day. Who knows? Would you be glad, Lorraine, if you saw me doing decently?"
 
"Glad? Of course I should!"
 
"I didn't know whether you'd worry your head one way or another about it, or care twopence whether I went to the dogs or not!"
 
"Don't be silly! You're not going to the dogs."
 
"I might—if nobody was sufficiently⁶ interested in me to mind."
 
"Heaps of people are interested!"
 
"One doesn't want people in heaps—I prefer interest singly. By the by, if you've any time to spare, you might write to a fellow now and again. I'll want letters in camp."
 
"All serene⁷! I'll send you one sometimes."
 
"Just to remind me of home."
 
"Morland! I believe you've got home-sickness as badly as Claudia. You'll be back at Porthkeverne before long, unless I'm greatly mistaken!"
 
"With my first leave, certainly," twinkled Morland.
 
As the weeks passed by in April, the artistic⁸ world of Porthkeverne reached a high pitch of anticipation⁹ and excitement. Practically every painter there had submitted something to the Academy, and the burning question was which among them would be lucky enough to have their work accepted. They looked out eagerly for the post, awaiting either a welcome varnishing¹⁰ ticket [198]or a printed notice regretting that for lack of space their contributions could not be included in the exhibition, and requesting them to remove their pictures as speedily as possible.
 
In the studio down by the harbour expectation ran rife¹¹. Margaret Lindsay had finished her painting of "Kilmeny"—if not altogether to her own satisfaction, at any rate to that of most of her friends—and had dispatched it to the Academy.
 
"I don't believe for a moment that it will get in," she assured Lorraine. "I never seem to have any luck, somehow. I'm not a lucky person."
 
"Perhaps you will have this time," said Lorraine, who was washing out oil paint brushes for her friend, a messy task which she sometimes undertook. "Let's will that you shall be accepted. You shall be!"
 
"All the 'willing' in the world won't do the deed if the judges 'will' the other way, and their will tugs¹² harder than ours!" laughed Margaret. "It depends so much on the taste of the judges. There's a fashion in pictures as in other things, and it's constantly changing."
 
"Is there? Why?"
 
"That I can't tell you, except that people tire of one style and like another. First the classical school was the favourite, then pre-Raphaelitism had its innings, then impressionism came up. Each period in painting is generally boomed by some celebrated¹³ art critic who deprecates the old-fashioned methods and cracks up the new. The public are rather like sheep. They buy what the critics [199]tell them to admire. Punch had a delightful¹⁴ skit¹⁵ on that once. Ruskin had been pitching into the commonplace artist's style of picture rather freely, so Punch evolved a dejected brother of the brush giving vent¹ to this despairing wail¹⁶:
 
'I takes and paints,
Hears no complaints,
And sells before I'm dry;
Then savage¹⁷ Ruskin
He sticks his tusk¹⁸ in,
And nobody will buy!'"
"I love Punch!" cackled Lorraine, drying the brushes on a clean paint-rag. "Tell me some more artistic titbits."
 
"Do you know the one about the old lady in the train who overheard the two artists talking? One said to the other:
 
"'Anything doing in children nowadays?'
 
"And his friend answered: 'A feller I know knocked off seven little girls' heads—nasty raw things they were too!—and a chap came in and carried them off just as they were—wet on the stretcher—and said he could do with a few more.'
 
"The poor old lady, who knew nothing of artists' lingo¹⁹, imagined that she had surprised details of a ghastly murder, instead of a satisfactory sale to an enterprising dealer²⁰. But to come back to the [200]Academy, Lorraine; I know I shan't get in! I've sent five times before, and always had the same disappointment, if you can call it a disappointment when you don't expect anything. The last time it happened I was in town, and I went to the Academy myself to fetch away my pictures. As I walked down the court-yard and out into Piccadilly with my parcel under my arm, I felt pretty blue, and I suppose I looked it, for a wretched little street arab stared at me with mock sympathy, and piped out: 'Have they rejected you too, poor darling?' He said it so funnily that I couldn't help laughing in spite of my blues²¹."
 
"When are you likely to hear your luck?" asked Lorraine.
 
"Any day now; but it will be bad luck."
 
"Then I shall call every day on my way home from school to see if you've had a letter."
 
Lorraine kept her word, and each afternoon took the path by the harbour instead of the direct road up the hill. Day after day passed, and the post-woman had not yet delivered the longed-for official communication.
 
"No news is good news!" cheered Lorraine. "Mr. Saunders had his rejection²² last week, so Claudia told me. Mr. Castleton only heard this morning."
 
"How many has he in?"
 
"Three—the view of Tangy Point from the beach, Madox wheeling Perugia in the barrow, and the portrait of Madame Bertier. Claudia says they're immensely relieved, because even Mr. Gilbertson is 'out' this year. Here comes the second post! Is there anything for you? I'm going to see!"
 
Lorraine, in her impatience²³, tore down the wooden steps of the studio, and waylaid²⁴ the post-woman. [201]She came back like a triumphant²⁵ whirlwind, waving a letter.
 
"I believe this is 'it'. Oh, do open it quick! I can't wait. I never felt so excited to know anything in all my life! I could scream!"
 
Margaret, equally agitated²⁶, nevertheless kept her feelings under control, and opened the envelope with outward calm, though her fingers trembled noticeably. She looked at the enclosure, flushed crimson²⁷, and, turning to Lorraine, dropped a mock curtsy.
 
"Madam Kilmeny," she announced, "I'm happy to be able to inform you that your portrait is to appear upon the walls of the Royal Academy!"
 
"Oh, hurrah²⁸!" jodelled Lorraine, careering round the studio in an ecstatic dance, somewhat to the peril²⁹ of various studies on easels. "I knew it would get in, Carina! I had a kind of premonition that it would!"
 
"And I had a premonition the other way entirely³⁰. I never was so surprised in my life! You've been my little mascot³¹, and brought me the luck!"
 
"No, indeed; it's your own cleverness. It's a beautiful painting. Claudia says even her father admired it, and he scarcely ever allows anybody's work is decent except his own."
 
"I certainly take praise from Mr. Castleton as a compliment," admitted Margaret. "I'm glad to hear that he liked it. Well, this is actually my first real artistic success. I don't know myself this afternoon. I feel an inch taller than usual."
 
[202]"And so do I, to think I'm going to be hung in the Academy! Of course, I know you've idealized me out of all recognition; but there's a foundation of 'me' in the picture—enough to cock-a-doodle about. The Castletons have been painted so often, they don't care; but it's a unique experience for me. It makes me feel somehow as if I were Kilmeny, and had spent those seven long years among the fairies. I felt it all the time I was standing³² for you, Carina."
 
"That's where you made such a perfect model. I could see the glamour³³ of the fairies in your face, and tried to catch it in my painting. I always contend that one of the chief elements in a good sitter is imagination, so as to maintain the right expression. One sees many apathetic³⁴ portraits, and knows that the originals must have been feeling bored to tears. You never looked bored."
 
"No, the fairies were dancing round me all the time! You conjured³⁵ them up. Do you know, Carina, I think fairies are your

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