And, indeed, it seemed as though it would, for Maria's reply to his earnest entreaty, though discreet, was certainly encouraging. "I dare not suffer myself to think of your last letter," she wrote. "I am very impatient, as you may imagine, to hear from papa on a subject so fraught with interest for us both; but was unwilling to delay writing to you, as you would be ignorant of the cause of such seeming inattention. I hope you will not find that your kind partiality to me made you view what passed at Spring Gardens too favourably. You know my sentiments; I shall be guided by my father in every respect. Should he acquiesce in my wishes, 1 shall be happier than 1 can express. If not, I shall have the consolation of reflecting that I am pleasing him. ... I cannot write any more till the wished, but fearfully dreaded, letter arrives."

And on the following day it came. Immediately Miss Bicknell sat down again to write to Constable a very proper, maidenly letter. "I have received my father's letter," she said. "It is precisely such a one as I expected, reasonable and kind; his only objection would be on the score of that necessary evil, money. What can we do? I wish I had it, but wishes are vain; we must be wise, and leave off a correspondence that is not calculated to make us think less of each other. . . . You will still be my friend and I will be yours, though I do not think I had better write to you any more, at least till I can coin. We should both of us be bad subjects for poverty, should we not? Even painting would go badly; it could hardly survive in domestic worry."

What an unromantic heroine! How lamentably practical! Yes; but the more one knows of Maria Bicknell, the more one learns to like her. Her heart may have been, indeed was, governed by her head, but this can scarcely be termed a fault. Besides, Constable lacked the "money sense" completely; like most artists, he was naturally a spendthrift. Perhaps, therefore, it was just because she did fully realise the value of a shilling that Maria proved a really excellent wife to him.

But this is anticipating. She was not his wife yet. Constable was determined, however, that she should be. "Be assured," he wrote to her, "we have only to consider our union as an event which must happen, and we shall yet be happy."

Miss Bicknell thereupon pretended to be angry. "You grieve and surprise me," she wrote to her obstinate, persistent wooer, "by continuing so sanguine on a subject altogether hopeless. . . . Let me entreat that you will cease to think of me. Forget that you have ever known me, and I will willingly resign all pretensions to your regard."

But Constable declined to, and indeed could not, forget her. Nor, unfortunately, could he continue writing to her, for she had told him: "You will, I am sure, see the impropriety of sending me any more letters." This seemed final; it deprived him of any possible loophole for escape. But give in he would not. Clearly he must find some fresh method of attack. First, therefore, he questioned his father as to the advisability of marrying, emphasising in his letter the misery of his present loneliness. Paternal support, if he could obtain it, would, he felt, be an asset of great value to his cause.

But again he was doomed to disappointment. Golding Constable's letter, it is true, contained much sage, fatherly advice, but that was all. And really what more could the boy expect? "As a single man," his father wrote, "I fear your expenses, on the most frugal plan, will be found quite equal to the produce of your profession. If my opinion were asked, it would be to defer all thoughts of marriage for the present." But he continued, "Be of good cheer, John, as in me you will always find a parent and a sincere friend."

Constable received this letter on New Year's day, 1812. And from then until the middle of April, strong in his purpose to conform with orders and advice, he neither saw nor wrote to his beloved lady. Nearly four months 1 To him it seemed eternity. He could endure the silence no longer, and so again he took up pen and wrote: "Let me beg of you to continue to cheer my solitude with your endearing epistles; they are next to seeing you and hearing you speak. I am now engaged with portraits," he continued. "Mr. Watts sat to me this morning, and seems pleased with what is going on. I am copying a picture for Lady Heathcote, her own portrait as Hebe."

But no! The little ruse failed. Even this story of his industry failed to move Maria's pity. At any rate she ignored the letter. But still the artist persevered. And when a few days later he learned that Dr. Rhudde had come to London on a visit, he made the most of a golden opportunity by calling audaciously upon the cause of all his troubles. Then he wrote to Maria. "I am glad 1 have seen him," he said, "for though this may not better our cause, it cannot make it. worse, and I have not to reflect on myself for any omission or neglect."

But still she remained silent. On May 6, Constable again wrote to her. "You may be expecting to hear from me about this time," he said. Expecting to hear from him! Maria could but reply to this. After all, she was merely human, and for her to resist the man longer became impossible. And henceforth she wrote to him often, and allowed him to write to her - avowedly as a lover.

John Constable, R.a., the hero of the love story told on these pages. The portrait here given is a reproduction of the one drawn by himself, which now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery

And now that she had agreed to marry him, she told him quite clearly that she would not wait for him indefinitely. In fact, she took the reins into her own hand and drove him. He must work, she said. He must concentrate his attention on remunerative work. He must advertise himself. He must overcome his scruples and cease from shunning the society of his influential friends. "Surely," she wrote, "it cannot be the way to promote your interest. Why you should be no longer anxious for fame is what I cannot comprehend. It is paying me a very ill compliment." But, the letter continued - for if Maria knew how to nag, she also knew how not to nag - "we shall return to town next Tuesday. I trust the following day to have the pleasure of meeting the recluse in St. James's Park about twelve o'clock. . . . You can then, if you please, make your defence, and promise to behave better for the future."