mp gloved hands behind his back, and shaking an admonitory head.

"Gleffer--very gleffer, of course--I suppose you'll let me know when
you want to sell anything?"

"Let you know?" gasped Stanwell, to whom the room grew so glowingly hot
that he thought for a moment the janitor must have made up the fire.

Shepson gave a dry laugh. "Vell, it doesn't sdrike me that you want to
now--doing this kind of thing, you know!" And he swept a comprehensive
hand about the studio.

"Ah," said Stanwell, who could not keep a note of flatness out of his
laugh.

"See here, Mr. Sdanwell, vot do you do it for? If you do it for
yourself and the other fellows, vell and good--only don't ask me round.
I sell pictures, I don't theorize about them. Ven you vant to sell,
gome to me with what my gustomers vant. You can do it--you're smart
enough. You can do most anything. Vere's dat bortrait of Gladys Glyde
dat you showed at the Fake Club last autumn? Dat little thing in de
Romney sdyle? Dat vas a little shem, now," exclaimed Mr. Shepson, whose
pronunciation became increasingly Semitic in moments of excitement.

Stanwell stared. Called upon a few months previously to contribute to
an exhibition of skits on well-known artists, he had used the
photograph of a favourite music-hall "star" as the basis of a picture
in the pseudo-historical style affected by the popular
portrait-painters of the day.

"That thing?" he said contemptuously. "How on earth did you happen to
see it?"

"I see everything," returned the dealer with an oracular smile. "If
you've got it here let me look at it, please."

It cost Stanwell a few minutes' search to unearth his skit--a clever
blending of dash and sentimentality, in just the right proportion to
create the impression of a powerful brush subdued to mildness by the
charms of the sitter. Stanwell had thrown it off in a burst of
imitative frenzy, beginning for the mere joy of the satire, but
gradually fascinated by the problem of producing the requisite mingling
of attributes. He was surprised now to see how well he had caught the
note, and Shepson's face reflected his approval.

"By George! Dat's something like," the dealer ejaculated.

"Like what? Like Mungold?" Stanwell laughed.

"Like business! Like a big order for a bortrait, Mr. Sdanwell--dat's
what it's like!" cried Shepson, swinging round on him.

Stanwell's stare widened. "An order for me?"

"Vy not? Accidents _vill_ happen," said Shepson jocosely. "