ds, he said quickly, as if the offence he had committed
was not worth mentioning:

"Queer things are done among comrades in art. The painter's war is over!
Begin the naval battle, Sire, or still better, lend more charm and
delicacy to the corners of the mouth. The pupil's worst failure is in the
chin; more practised hands might be wrecked on that cliff. Those eyes!
Perhaps they sparkled just in that way, but we are agreed in one thing:
the portrait ought not to represent the original at a given moment, ruled
by a certain feeling or engaged in a special act, but should express the
sum of the spiritual, intellectual and personal attributes of the
subject--his soul and person, mind and character-feelings and nature.
King Philip, pondering over complicated political combinations, would be
a fascinating historical painting, but no likeness. . . ."

"Certainly not," said the king in a low voice; "the portrait must reveal
the inmost spirit; mine must show how warmly Philip loves art and his
artists. Take the palette, I beg. It is for you, the great Master, not
for me, the overworked, bungling amateur, to correct the work of talented
pupils."

There was a hypocritical sweetness in the tone of these words which had
not escaped the artist.

Philip had long been a master in the school of dissimulation, but Moor
knew him thoroughly, and understood the art of reading his heart.

This mode of expression from the king alarmed him more than a passionate
outburst of rage. He only spoke in this way when concealing what was
seething within. Besides, there was another token. The Netherlander had
intentionally commenced a conversation on art, and it was almost
unprecedented to find Philip disinclined to enter into one. The blow had
been scarcely perceptible, but Majesty will not endure a touch.

Philip did not wish to quarrel with the artist now, but he would remember
the incident, and woe betide him, if in some gloomy hour the sovereign
should recall the insult offered him here. Even the lightest blow from
the paw of this slinking tiger could inflict deep wounds--even death.

These thoughts had darted with the speed of lightning through the
artist's mind, and still lingered there as, respectfully declining to
take the palette, he replied "I beseech you, Sire, keep the brush and
colors, and correct what you dislike."

"That would mean to repaint the whole picture, and my time is limited,"
answered Philip. "You are responsible for yo