his profession, but because it gives him an opportunity of
coming into contact with other bright, vivacious spirits." She took
Gertie's coat and hat. "Perhaps we can get him to tell us some of his
best stories presently."

Her husband smoothed his hair at the mirror with both hands, and gave
style and uniformity to the two halves of his moustache. This done, he
turned and asked the girl whether she did not consider Whistler an
overrated artist. Just because he happened to be dead, people raved
about him. Would not allow any one else to produce impressions of the
Thames round about Chelsea. Mr. Jacks said, rather bitterly, that when
he too was no more, folk would doubtless be going mad about him, and
Jubilee Place might become impassable owing to the crowd of dealers
waiting their turn there.

"And what good do you imagine that will do to me?" he demanded. "Eh,
what? No use you saying that I ought to be content with the praise of
posterity."

"I didn't say so. How many hours do you work a day?"

"I can't work unless the fit takes me," argued Madame's husband weakly.

"Are you subject to them? Fits, I mean?"

Madame, assisting the maid in setting the table, took up the case for
the defence, and pointed out to Miss Higham that one profession
differed from another. In the case of painting, for instance, you
could not expect to be ruled by office hours; you had to wait until
inspiration came, and then the light was, perhaps, not exactly what you
required. Besides, friends might drop in at that moment for a smoke
and a chat.

"Sounds like an easy life," remarked Gertie.

"You forget the wear and tear of the brain," said Madame.

"But we get that in our business."

"Hush!" whispered the other. "He doesn't like hearing that referred
to."

Conversation during the meal was restricted to the subject of the
production of pictures and their subsequent disposal; Madame showed
great deference to the arguments of her husband, occasionally
interposing a mild suggestion which he had no difficulty in knocking
down. At moments of excited contention Madame's husband became
inarticulate, and had to fall back upon the gestures of the studio,
that conveyed nothing to the visitor.

"How much do you make a year?" she asked, when an opportunity came. He
paused in his task of opening another bottle of stout, and regarded her
with something of surprise.

"My good girl," he replied, "I don't estimate my results by pou