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Philip sank into an imitation Louis Quatorze chair beside a fountain in imitation of one in the apartment of the Pompadour, and ordered what he knew would be an execrable imitation of an American cocktail. While waiting for the cocktail and Lady Woodcote’s luncheon party, Philip, from where he sat, could not help but overhear the conversation of Faust and of the man with him. The latter was a German with Hebraic features and a pointed beard. In loud tones he was congratulating the American many-time millionaire on having that morning come into possession of a rare and valuable masterpiece, a hitherto unknown and but recently discovered portrait of Philip IV by Velasquez.

Philip sighed enviously.

“Fancy,” he thought, “owning a Velasquez! Fancy having it all to yourself! It must be fun to be rich. It certainly is hell to be poor!”

The German, who was evidently a picture-dealer, was exclaiming in tones of rapture, and nodding his head with an air of awe and solemnity.

“I am telling you the truth, Mr. Faust,” he said. “In no gallery in Europe, no, not even in the Prado, is there such another Velasquez. This is what you are doing, Mr. Faust, you are robbing Spain. You are robbing her of something worth more to her than Cuba. And I tell you, so soon as it is known that this Velasquez is going to your home in Pittsburgh, every Spaniard will hate you and every art-collector will hate you, too. For it is the most wonderful art treasure in Europe. And what a bargain, Mr. Faust! What a bargain!”

To make sure that the reporter was within hearing, Mr. Faust glanced in the direction of Philip and, seeing that he had heard, frowned importantly. That the reporter might hear still more, he also raised his voice.

“Nothing can be called a bargain, Baron,” he said, “that costs three hundred thousand dollars!”

Again he could not resist glancing toward Philip, and so eagerly that Philip deemed it would be only polite to look interested. So he obligingly assumed a startled look, with which he endeavored to mingle simulations of surprise, awe, and envy.

The next instant an expression of real surprise overspread his features.

Mr. Faust continued. “If you will come upstairs,” he said to the picture-dealer, “I will give you your check; and then I should like to drive to your apartments and take a farewell look at the picture.”

“I am sorry,” the Baron said, “but I have had it moved to my art gallery to be packed.”

“Then let’s go to the gallery,” urged the patron of art. “We’ve just time before lunch.” He rose to his feet, and on the instant the soul of the picture-dealer was filled with alarm.

In actual words he said: “The picture is already boxed and in its lead coffin. No doubt by now it is on its way to Liverpool. I am sorry.” But his thoughts, as Philip easily read them, were: “Fancy my letting this vulgar fool into the Tate Street workshop! Even HE would know that old masters are not found in a half-finished state on Chelsea-made frames and canvases. Fancy my letting him see those two half-completed Van Dycks, the new Hals, the half-dozen Corots. He would even see his own copy of Velasquez next to the one exactly like it–the one MacMillan finished yesterday and that I am sending to Oporto, where next year, in a convent, we shall ‘discover’ it.”

Philip’s surprise gave way to intense amusement. In his delight at the situation upon which he had stumbled, he laughed aloud. The two men, who had risen, surprised at the spectacle of a young man laughing at nothing, turned and stared. Philip also rose.

“Pardon me,” he said to Faust, “but you spoke so loud I couldn’t help overhearing. I think we’ve met before, when I was a reporter on the Republic.”

The Pittsburgh millionaire made a pretense, of annoyance.

“Really!” he protested irritably, “you reporters butt in everywhere. No public man is safe. Is there no place we can go where you fellows won’t annoy us?”