it."

"Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I
was working on the last time when you called at my studio?"

"Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I
cannot recall it at the moment."

"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered
me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original
conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it
away."

"That is very regrettable."

"Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor.

Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having
twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the
expenses of three households.

The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table,
unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him.
Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at
first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so
intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action.

"By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?"

"It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without