“Yes, the portrait of Vard _is_ a failure,” she admitted, “and I’ve never known why. If he’d been an obscure elusive type of villain, one could understand Lillo’s missing the mark for once; but with that face from the pit--!” She turned at the announcement of a name which our discussion had drowned, and found herself shaking hands with Lillo. The pretty woman started and put her hands to her curls; Cumberton dropped a condescending eyelid (he never classed himself by recognizing degrees in the profession), and Mrs. Mellish, cheerfully aware that she had been overheard, said, as she made room for Lillo-- “I wish you’d explain it.” Lillo smoothed his beard and waited for a cup of tea. Then, “Would there be any failures,” he said, “if one could explain them?” “Ah, in some cases I can imagine it’s impossible to seize the type--or to say why one has missed it. Some people are like daguerreotypes; in certain lights one can’t see them at all. But surely Vard was obvious enough. What I want to know is, what became of him? What did you do with him? How did you manage to shuffle him out of sight?” “It was much easier than you think. I simply missed an opportunity--” “That a sign-painter would have seen!” “Very likely. In fighting shy of the obvious one may miss the significant--” “--And when I got back from Paris,” the pretty woman was heard to wail, “I found all the women here were wearing the very models I’d brought home with me!” Mrs. Mellish, as became a vigilant hostess, got up and shuffled her guests; and the question of Yard’s portrait was dropped. I left the house with Lillo; and on the way down Fifth Avenue, after one of his long silences, he suddenly asked: “Is that what is generally said of my picture of Vard? I don’t mean in the newspapers, but by the fellows who know?” I said it was. He drew a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “it’s good to know that when one tries to fail one can make such a complete success of it.” “Tries to fail?” “Well, no; that’s not quite it, either; I didn’t want to make a failure of Vard’s picture, but I did so deliberately, with my eyes open, all the same. It was what one might call a lucid failure.” “But why--?” “The why of it is rather complicated. I’ll tell you some time--” He hesitated. “Come and dine with me at the club by and by, and I’ll tell you afterwards. It’s a nice morsel for a psychologist.” At dinner he said little; but I didn’t mind that. I had known him for years, and had always found something soothing and companionable in his long abstentions from speech. His silence was never unsocial; it was bland as a natural hush; one felt one’s self included in it, not left out. He stroked his beard and gazed absently at me; and when we had finished our coffee and liqueurs we strolled down to his studio.