FAME and fortune were coming at last. There was no doubt of it in Jimmie's optimistic mind. For years they had lagged with desperately heavy feet, but now they were in sight, slowly approaching, hand in hand. Jimmie made fantastic preparations to welcome them, and wore his most radiant smile. In vain did Aline, with her practical young woman's view of things, point to the exiguity of the price fixed by Her Serene Highness. If that was the advent of fortune, she came in very humble guise, the girl insinuated. Jimmie, with a magnificent sweep of the hand, dismissed such contemptible considerations as present pounds, shillings, and pence. He was going to paint the portrait of the sister of a reigning monarch. Did not Aline see that this might lead to his painting the portrait of the reigning monarch himself? Would not the counterfeit presentment of one crowned head attract the attention of other crowned heads to the successful artist? Did she not see him then appointed painter in ordinary to all the emperors, kings, queens, princes, and princesses of Europe? He would star the Continent, make a royal progress from court to court, disputed for by potentates and flattered by mighty sovereigns. He grew dithyrambic, a condition in which Aline regarded him as hopelessly impervious to reason. His portraits, he said, would adorn halls of state, and the dreams that he put on canvas, hitherto disregarded by a blind world, would find places of honour in the Treasure Houses of the Nations. It would be fame for him and fortune for Aline. She should go attired in silk and shod with gold. She should have a stall at the theatre whenever she wanted, and a carriage and pair to fetch her home. She should eat vanilla ices every night. And then she might marry a prince and live happy ever after. “I don't want to marry a prince or any one else, dear,” Aline said once, bringing visions down into the light of common day. “I just want to go on staying with you.”