accepted the most effusive tributes with the same ghastly and conventional
smile; from feminine glances of unutterable gratitude and admiration he
turned away with an inarticulate mumble and an averted eye; at times he
almost seemed to be suppressing a squirm. If expression is any index to the
thoughts, he was neither grateful nor gratified, and distinctly
uncomfortable.

A painter-friend of his, who had been patiently watching his opportunity to
get a word with him as he stood there exchanging handshakes, managed at
last to get near enough for conversation. "Very glad to find there's no
truth in it!" he began, cordially. "No truth in _what_!" said TICKLER, a
little snappishly, for he was getting extremely fractious, "the
compliments"?

"No, no, my dear boy. I mean in what a fellow told me outside just
now--that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and carried off
all your canvasses--a lie, of course!"

"Oh, _that_?" said TICKLER, "that's true enough--they left nothing behind
'em but the beastly frames!"

"Then what on earth----?" began the other, in perplexity, for another group
was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that demanded the relief of
instant expression.

"Well--er--fact is," explained poor TICKLER, in an undertone, "I _did_
think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere--but my wife
wouldn't hear of it, you know; said it would be such a pity to have had all
the expense and trouble for nothing, and didn't believe the mere absence of
pictures would make any particular difference. And--er--I'm bound to say