“That fellow has just mentioned the secret of success in the arts,” Jacques Molan said to me with a laugh; “between ourselves as friends, you are a little lacking in assurance yourself. If I met you more often I would give you——” In saying this he did not suspect how gaily and hardly he was touching a sore in my artistic conscience; and I did not give him the answer which rose to my lips. “That simply proves the baseness and brutality of success, and that the artist who succeeds is often a charlatan in disguise.” He had just knocked at the dressing-room door. A voice had answered, “Who is there?” then without waiting for a reply the door opened and Camille Favier appeared with a smile of happiness upon her pretty face which changed into a constrained expression when she saw that her lover was not alone. “Ah!” she said, slightly confused, “I did not think you would bring any one, and my dressing-room is untidy.” “That does not matter,” said Jacques as he gently pushed her back into the room with one hand and introduced me with the other. “My friend is no one of importance as you think he is, little Blue Duchess. He is a very old friend of mine and a painter, a very great painter, you understand. All our friends are great men. He is used to disorder in his own studio, so make your mind easy. He asked to be introduced to you because he has long wished to paint your portrait.” He nudged me with his elbow to warn me not to contradict his delicate handling of the truth. “I forgot to mention his name, M. Vincent la Croix. Do not say you have seen his work, for he shows very little. He belongs to the timid school. You are warned. Now the ice is broken let us sit down.”