The pretty woman nestled back amongst her cushions, and gazed through half-closed lids with languorous eyes at the man who poured out the tea near her feet. “It’s so pleasant,” she said with a comfortable sigh, “to see the tea--the silver--the china. The fragrance of it all----” He stopped, the silver teapot in his hand, and smiled: “But there are no footmen in Bohemia--very little silver--very indifferent china.” He handed her a cup of tea. “They live as often as not upon imagination--and mad cow is their chiefest dish.” She raised inquiring eyebrows: “Mad cow?” she asked. He nodded: “Hunger,” said he, and he laughed.... “It doesn’t sound an alluring dish, does it?” “How dreadful!” she purred, and sipped tea. “Still”--she sighed--“it must be rather exciting. It must be so romantic--to starve.” Pangbutt shrugged his shoulders: “This is an age of romance, then,” said he. She sighed, prattling on: “And it must be delicious to be famous.” The flattery sent a smirk to Pangbutt’s lips: “Ah, Fame----!” he said. The handle of the door moved, clicking in its turning, and Pangbutt, looking over his shoulder, where he stood by the edge of the great screen, saw the door open, and a haggard face look in. The intruder came into the room a step or so. Pangbutt gasped with frank surprise: “Anthony? Good God, where have you sprung from?” “Sorry to come before the light has quite gone, Paul; but I’m starving.” “Starving?” Anthony nodded his head: “H’m, h’m! There you have the real devil in the machinery--and I’m turning on the lime-light of confession.” He glanced round the great studio deliberately: “This is rather a handsome room to confess in--a palace to our rooms in the old Paris days, eh?” Pangbutt was cudgelling his wits to say something that would discover the presence of the seated lady behind the screen to the careless intruder, when Anthony strode up to him; and as the corner of the throne came into his range of vision beyond the end of the screen, he caught sight of the tray with the bright tea-things upon it. “Food, ye gods!” he cried, and strode towards the tray. “Paul,” he said hoarsely--“I must have food.” He stretched out his hand to the tray--halted--hesitated--stood up and took off his hat, as, on passing the screen, the enthroned sitter came into his view. He bowed: “Madame,” said he--“I apologize for my want of manners. The truth is I pawned them weeks ago--with my waistcoat and the last family portrait--a miniature of my uncle the general--a most polished person, who would have died of an apoplectic fit to see himself coming to move in such mixed company----” Pangbutt coughed; and mumbling their names, as the fashion is, he introduced them, adding: “A friend of mine--from Bohemia.” His eyes laughed to her. He turned to Anthony as the two bowed to each other formally: “Anthony,” said he--“the sight of you takes me back to Paris--and makeshifts.”