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As his visits always had the same result, Stanwell was reduced to wondering why he had come again; but Shepson was not the man to indulge in vague roamings through the field of art, and it was safe to conclude that his purpose would in due course reveal itself. His tour brought him at length face to face with the painter, where he paused, clasping his plump gloved hands behind his back, and shaking an admonitory head.

“Gleffer–very gleffer, of course–I suppose you’ll let me know when you want to sell anything?”

“Let you know?” gasped Stanwell, to whom the room grew so glowingly hot that he thought for a moment the janitor must have made up the fire.

Shepson gave a dry laugh. “Vell, it doesn’t sdrike me that you want to now–doing this kind of thing, you know!” And he swept a comprehensive hand about the studio.

“Ah,” said Stanwell, who could not keep a note of flatness out of his laugh.

“See here, Mr. Sdanwell, vot do you do it for? If you do it for yourself and the other fellows, vell and good–only don’t ask me round. I sell pictures, I don’t theorize about them. Ven you vant to sell, gome to me with what my gustomers vant. You can do it–you’re smart enough. You can do most anything. Vere’s dat bortrait of Gladys Glyde dat you showed at the Fake Club last autumn? Dat little thing in de Romney sdyle? Dat vas a little shem, now,” exclaimed Mr. Shepson, whose pronunciation became increasingly Semitic in moments of excitement.

Stanwell stared. Called upon a few months previously to contribute to an exhibition of skits on well-known artists, he had used the photograph of a favourite music-hall “star” as the basis of a picture in the pseudo-historical style affected by the popular portrait-painters of the day.

“That thing?” he said contemptuously. “How on earth did you happen to see it?”

“I see everything,” returned the dealer with an oracular smile. “If you’ve got it here let me look at it, please.”

It cost Stanwell a few minutes’ search to unearth his skit–a clever blending of dash and sentimentality, in just the right proportion to create the impression of a powerful brush subdued to mildness by the charms of the sitter. Stanwell had thrown it off in a burst of imitative frenzy, beginning for the mere joy of the satire, but gradually fascinated by the problem of producing the requisite mingling of attributes. He was surprised now to see how well he had caught the note, and Shepson’s face reflected his approval.

“By George! Dat’s something like,” the dealer ejaculated.

“Like what? Like Mungold?” Stanwell laughed.

“Like business! Like a big order for a bortrait, Mr. Sdanwell–dat’s what it’s like!” cried Shepson, swinging round on him.

Stanwell’s stare widened. “An order for me?”

“Vy not? Accidents vill happen,” said Shepson jocosely. “De fact is, Mrs. Archer Millington wants to be bainted–you know her sdyle? Well, she prides herself on her likeness to little Gladys. And so ven she saw dat bicture of yours at de Fake Show she made a note of your name, and de udder day she sent for me and she says: ‘Mr. Shepson, I’m tired of Mungold–all my friends are done by Mungold. I vant to break away and be orishinal–I vant to be done by the bainter that did Gladys Glyde.”

Shepson waited to observe the result of this overwhelming announcement, and Stanwell, after a momentary halt of surprise, brought out laughingly: “But this is a Mungold. Is this what she calls being original?”

“Shoost exactly,” said Shepson, with unexpected acuteness. “That’s vat dey all want–something different from what all deir friends have got, but shoost like it all de same. Dat’s de public all over! Mrs. Millington don’t want a Mungold, because everybody’s got a Mungold, but she wants a picture that’s in the same sdyle, because dat’s de sdyle, and she’s afraid of any oder!”

Stanwell was listening with real enjoyment. “Ah, you know your public,” he murmured.