degree that he brought on a frightful fit of coughing, and Miss Arran,
I'm afraid, was rather annoyed with me when she came in, though I'm
sure an order from Mrs. Archer Millington is not a thing that would
annoy most people!"

Mr. Mungold paused, breathless with the rehearsal of his wrongs, and
Stanwell said with a smile: "You know poor Caspar is terribly stiff on
the purity of the artist's aim."

"The artist's aim?" Mr. Mungold stared. "What is the artist's aim but
to please--isn't that the purpose of all true art? But his theories are
so extravagant. I really don't know what I shall say to Mrs.
Millington--she is not used to being refused. I suppose I had better
put it on the ground of ill-health." The artist glanced at his handsome
repeater. "Dear me, I promised to be at Mrs. Van Orley's before twelve
o'clock. We are to settle about the curtain before luncheon. My dear
fellow, it has been a privilege to see your work. By the way, you have
never done any modelling, I suppose? You're so extraordinarily
versatile--I didn't know whether you might care to undertake the Cupids
yourself."

Stanwell had to wait a long time for the doctor; and when the latter
came out he looked grave. Worse? No, he couldn't say that Caspar was
worse--but then he wasn't any better. There was nothing mortal the
matter, but the question was how long he could hold out. It was the
kind of case where there is no use in drugs--he had just scribbled a
prescription to quiet Miss Arran.

"It's the cold, I suppose," Stanwell groaned. "He ought to be shipped
off to Florida."

The doctor made a negative gesture. "Florida be hanged! What he wants
is to sell his group. That would set him up quicker than sitting on the
equator."

"Sell his group?" Stanwell echoed. "But he's so indifferent to
recognition--he believes in himself so thoroughly. I thought at first
he would be hard hit when the Exhibition Committee refused it, but he
seems to regard that as another proof of its superiority."

His visitor turned on him the penetrating eye of the confessor.
"Indifferent to recognition? He's eating his heart out for it. Can't
you see that all that talk is just so much whistling to keep his
courage up? The name of his disease is failure--and I can't write the
prescription that will cure that complaint. But if somebody would come
along and take a fancy to those two naked parties who are breaking each
other's heads, we'd have Mr. Caspar putting on a pound a d