“Makeshifts!” Anthony laughed sadly, and, rousing, added--“I say, Paul, have you finished with the crumbs on that tray?” Pangbutt uttered an embarrassed laugh, and went and rang the bell. “Anthony was always impatient for the dinner-hour,” he said--and turning to Dukes as he appeared at the door he added--“Take away the tray, Dukes----” Anthony put out his hand: “I say--couldn’t he--leave the tray? I see some crumbs.... Bring another tray, Dukes.” Pangbutt signed to the old butler to wait: “A glass of wine, Anthony?” he asked. “Tsah! you don’t understand, Paul. I’m not playing with my vitals--I’m starving, man,” he said hoarsely. “A chicken?” “The man’s a god!” “D’you mind it cold?” “Heavens, Paul! I shall die in the midst of all these elaborate courtesies--this rigid etiquette!” He sank down wearily upon a corner of the painting throne, and fidgeted with the tea-things on the tray. Pangbutt gave an embarrassed laugh, and turned to the butler: “Dukes, bring up a tray--cold chicken--wine--anything you can get. Quick as you can.” “Yessir!” said Dukes, and formally disappeared. The beauty had been markedly uneasy; she now rose to take her leave. “I must be running away, Mr. Pangbutt,” she said; and bowing over her shoulder to Anthony, who rose and returned her bow with stiff precision as she stepped lightly down from the throne: “So sorry!” she said. As Pangbutt moved with her through the door she asked him in confidential undertone: “Who’s the savage? Where does he come from?” “Bohemia,” he said, with a dry mocking smile; and he lingered about her on the landing, to assist her with her cloak. He escorted her downstairs to her carriage.... When they were gone from the studio, Anthony Baddlesmere rose from his seat, carrying the last piece of a tea-cake in his hand, and, walking over to the easel, as he ate the cake he regarded the picture with critical eye: “H’m! ’Tain’t bad!” he growled. Pangbutt entered the room and shut the door. He laughed: “Her ladyship doesn’t seem to be so enamoured of Bohemia after all,” he muttered. “Eh?” asked Anthony. “Oh--nothing--nothing,” said Pangbutt. “I am afraid we have spoilt a pretty woman’s illusion.” Anthony gazed at the canvas before him: “To destroy a pretty woman’s illusions is cruel as plucking out a child’s eyes,” he said, and added: “Who’s the doll?” “Lady Persimmon; but----” “What? Eleanor Persimmon, who married old Gilders Persimmon?... He dyed his beard for the wedding--naughty old man--and he’s had to renew it ever since----” Pangbutt went to the fireplace, and he turned and said severely: “Sir Gilders Persimmon is not in his youth, but----” “No, no, Paul--I’m not blaming him for being a ruin--but he’s so damned badly restored.” He turned to the picture. “So you are Eleanor Persimmon, my lady!” He gazed at the portrait dreamily; and, suddenly rousing, added: “Not much of a likeness, old boy, is it?” Pangbutt smiled wryly. Anthony peered round the easel at him: