As they approached the threshold they heard Fenwick speaking.
'I say, hand me that rag--and look sharp and bring me some more oil--quick! And where the devil is that sketch?
Well, get the oil--and then look for it--under that pile over there--No!--hi!--stand still a moment--just where you are--I want to see the tone of your head against this background! Hang it!--the light's going!' The visitors paused--to see Fenwick standing between them and a large canvas covered with the first 'laying-in' of an important subject.

The model, a thin, dark-faced fellow, was standing meekly on the spot to which Fenwick had motioned him, while the artist, palette on thumb, stood absorbed and frowning, his keen eye travelling from the man's head to the canvas behind it.
Lord Findon smiled.

He was a clever amateur, and relished the details of the business.
'Smells good!' he said, in Eugenie's ear, sniffing the scents of the studio.

'Looks like a fine subject too.

And just now he's king of it.
The torments are all ahead.