Fatuous is an artist, indeed! The woman of his canvas is lovely. She is about six inches taller than Mrs. Radigan, and perhaps fifty pounds lighter in weight. Leaning back gracefully in her chair, her eyes are turned down, as she gazes tenderly and pensively at the child at her side. Spirituelle she looks, high-born and high-strung as becomes the daughter of a hundred Americans and the mistress of the largest house that fronts the park. "It's charming," said Mr. Mudison. "But who is the boy?" "Jack," Mrs. Radigan answered. "Jack?" exclaimed the clubman, puzzled. "Not my husband--my son," she returned. "Ah," cried Mr. Mudison. "I see, I see. The child I met at Westbury, walking with a governess." One of the greatest triumphs of this democratic country of ours is the ease with which the plain Johns of one generation are succeeded by Jacks. I have never seen this Radigan hopeful but once, and have hardly heard mention of him much oftener, but our modern system of keeping the children in storage until they are full-grown often leads us to the erroneous idea that somebody's millions are just lying in wait for a library to found. "Mr. Fatuous said I must have a child to balance the composition," explained Mrs. Radigan. "So I had Jack brought up from Westbury, where we had been keeping him for the winter. He just hated sitting and it generally took me and the governess and a nurse to hold him. Sometimes he kicked dreadfully, but Mr. Fatuous made him look like a perfect dear. Thank goodness, though, that's over. I just couldn't stand the kicks any longer, so we got a child from an asylum I am interested in. He did splendidly." I wondered why Mrs. Radigan troubled sitting herself, and was on the point of making the suggestion when she went on: "So here I am, sitting looking pensively at Jack, one of my hands resting on the arm of the chair and the other holding Jack's, who is looking up affectionately at me. A bit of light comes through the window, shining on my face and on the diamond buckle on my slipper, which rests on a silk cushion. I am awfully angular and lovely and thin. Mr. Fatuous says he considers the woman in the picture one of the handsomest he has ever done. It really looks something like me." "A perfect likeness," cried Mr. Mudison.