"That is my agent's advertisement. Yes, the number of persons to see it has been enormous. You haven't read, then, the criticism on it in the issue of July 2nd?" "That's a pleasure I have in store." "Nor Mr. Willard?" he added, turning to me. "Not yet. I may read it," I replied, as if the act would be one of magnificent condescension on my part, whereas, if the truth must be told, I was inwardly burning to peruse the article in question. "A--ah!" And the prolonging of this little syllable was marked by a decided tone of satisfaction. "And have you really made a great name?" said Daphne, looking admiringly at the artist. "I am so glad! I always knew your efforts would meet with success. But tell me all about your picture. What is the subject?" "The 'Fall of Cæsar.' It represents the hero, as we may suppose him to have been a few minutes after his death, lying at the base of Pompey's statue. There are no other figures in the picture besides the two I have mentioned, Cæsar and Pompey. Some columns in the background complete the scene. It is a very simple tableau, and no one has been more surprised than myself at the encomiums that have been lavished upon it." "Did the work take you long?" "The actual canvas-work--no; the elaboration of the idea which led to the work--yes; for it has been the outcome of a lifetime of thought." He spoke with all the air of an octogenarian. "I began the work about a year ago, a year this autumn, and finished it last--last Christmas," he hesitated at the word, as if reluctant to renew Daphne's sad memories, "and exhibited it at Paris in the beginning of spring." "At Paris? We were at Paris in the beginning of spring. It is strange we should have missed you." "When did you leave Paris?" "March 31st--wasn't it, Frank?" "Ah! _we_--" he stopped to change the plural pronoun to the singular, but, rapid as the correction was, it did not escape my notice--"I did not arrive in Paris till April 1st." "The very day after we left. How odd! But why did you exhibit your picture in Paris, and not in London?" "A prophet hath no honour in his own country," replied Angelo. "I think I may speak of England as my country, from the length of time I have lived in it. London has disappointed me so often that I resolved to try Paris this year. So I hired a gallery, and exhibited 'The Fall of Cæsar,' with some other pictorial compositions of mine. The people of Paris seem more appreciative of my talent--if I may be pardoned for using the word--than the Londoners." "I have always considered the French a superficial people," I interjected. "Oh no, they are not," returned the artist quietly. "Of course they are not? How can you say so?" said Daphne, defending the artist with more warmth than was pleasant to me. "We must see your picture, Mr. Vasari, when we come to Paris."