“There has been an awful row, you know,” he said confidentially, looking round to see that he was not overheard. “They have scarcely made it up yet.” “Do tell us about it, Mr. Sandys,” said Norma, smiling upon him. “It's rather a joke. Let us get out of the way and I'll tell you.” He piloted them through the crush into a corridor, and found them a vacant seat by some palms. “It's all about pictures,” he resumed. “Princess wants to have her portrait painted in London. Why she should n't have it made in Germany I don't know. Anyhow she comes to duchess for advice. Duchess has taken up Foljambe, you know--chap that has painted about twenty miles of women full length--” “We saw the dear duchess at his Private View,” Mrs. Hardacre interjected. “Yes. She runs him for all she's worth. Told the princess there was only one man possible for her portrait, and that was Foljambe. Princess--she's as hard as nails, you know--inquires his price, knocks him down half. He agrees. Everything is arranged. Princess to sit for the portrait when she stays with duchess at Chiltern Towers in September--” “Oh, we are going to have the princess down with us?” Mrs. Hardacre grew more alert. “Yes. Couldn't find time to sit now--going next week to Herren-Rothbeck--coming back in September. Well, it was all settled nicely--you know the duchess's way. On Friday, however, she takes the princess to see Foljambe's show--for the first time. Just like her. The princess looks round, drops her lorgnon, cries out, 'Lieber Gott in Himmel! The man baints as if he was bainting on de bavement!' and utterly refuses to have anything to do with him. I tell you there were ructions!” He embraced a knee and leant back, laughing boyishly at the memory of the battle royal between the high-born dames. “Then who is going to paint the portrait?” asked Norma. “That's what I am supposed to find out,” replied the youth. “But I can't get a man to do it cheap enough. One can't go to a swell R. A. and ask him to paint a portrait of a princess for eighteen pence.” Norma had an inspiration. “Can I recommend a friend of mine?” “Would he do it?”, “I think so--if I asked him.” “By Jove, who is he?” asked the youth, pulling down his shirtcuff for the purpose of making memoranda. “Mr. James Padgate, 10 Friary Grove, N. W. He is Mr. King's most intimate friend.” “He can paint all right, can't he?” asked the youth.