chance have all these chickens? . . . Hush, Tommy! That was a very
naughty word! And you need not be jealous of Dal. I admire you still
more. Dal, will you paint my scarlet macaw?"

The young artist, whose portraits in that year's Academy had created
much interest in the artistic world, and whose violet shirt had just
been so severely censured, lay back in his lounge-chair, with his
arms behind his head and a gleam of amusement in his bright brown
eyes.

"No, dear Duchess," he said. "I beg respectfully to decline the
commission, Tommy would require a Landseer to do full justice to his
attitudes and expression. Besides, it would be demoralising to an
innocent and well-brought-up youth, such as you know me to be, to
spend long hours in Tommy's society, listening to the remarks that
sweet bird would make while I painted him. But I will tell you what
I will do. I will paint you, dear Duchess, only not in that hat!
Ever since I was quite a small boy, a straw hat with black ribbons
tied under the chin has made me feel ill. If I yielded to my natural
impulses now, I should hide my face in Miss Champion's lap, and kick
and scream until you took it off. I will paint you in the black
velvet gown you wore last night, with the Medici collar; and the
jolly arrangement of lace and diamonds on your head. And in your
hand you shall hold an antique crystal mirror, mounted in silver."

The artist half closed his eyes, and as he described his picture in
a voice full of music and mystery, an attentive hush fell upon the
gay group around him. When Garth Dalmain described his pictures,
people saw them. When they walked into the Academy or the New
Gallery the following year, they would say: "Ah, there it is! just