“He has n't any idea of the people's motives.” She added somewhat hysterically: “The man is half fool, half angel--” “And altogether a _man_. Don't you make any mistake about that,” said Connie, with a pretty air of finality. “You don't know as much about him as I do.” “I'm not so sure about that,” said Norma. “I am,” said Connie. Jimmie was wandering away from the refreshment-table when Theodore Weever stopped him. “That's a famous portrait of yours, Mr. Padgate. I saw it to-day after lunch. I offer you my congratulations.” Jimmie thanked him, said modestly that he hoped it was a good likeness. “Too good by a long chalk,” laughed the American. “Her Serene Skinflint does n't deserve it. I bet you she beat you down like a market-woman haggling for fish.” Jimmie stuck his hands on his hips and laughed. “You don't deny it. You should n't have let her. She is rolling in money.” “I am afraid one does n't bother much with the commercial side of things,” said Jimmie. “That's where you make the mistake. Money is money, and it is better in one's own pockets than in anybody else's. But that's not what I wanted to speak to you about. I wonder if you would let me have the pleasure of calling at your studio some day? I'm collecting a few pictures, and I should regard it as a privilege to be allowed to look round yours.” Jimmie, having no visiting cards, scribbled his address on the back of an envelope. He would be delighted to see Mr. Weever any time he was passing through London. Weever bowed, and turned to greet a passing acquaintance, leaving a happy artist. A miracle had happened; the star of his fortunes had arisen. A week ago it was below the horizon, shedding a faint, hopeful glimmer in the sky. Now it shone bright overhead. The days of struggle and disappointment were over. He had come into his kingdom of recognition. All had happened to-day: the princess's promise of another and more illustrious royal portrait; the sudden leap into fame; the patronage of the American financier. One has to be the poor artist, with his youth--one record of desperate endeavour--behind him, to know what these things mean. The delicate flattery of strange women, however commonplace or contemptible it may be to the successful, was a new, rare thing to Jimmie and appeased an unknown hunger. The prospect of good work done and delivered to the world, without sordid, heart-breaking bargainings, shimmered before him like a paradise. Old habit made him long for Aline. How pleased the child would be when she heard the glad news! He saw the joy on her bright face and heard her clap her hands together, and he smiled. He would return to her a conqueror, having won the prizes she had so often wept for--name and fame and fortune. The band was playing the “Wedding March” from “Lohengrin.” By chance, as he was no musician, he recognised it. “Aline shall have a wedding dress from Paris,” he said half aloud, and he smiled again. The world had never been so beautiful.