is dreams.

"Great heavens!" he warned himself. "And I am to take my first lesson in
running the business this evening! What perfect lunacy comes from
mistaking the top of a Fifth Avenue stage for a howdah!"

XXVI

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY

How thankful he was that the old brick corner mansion in Madison Avenue,
with age alone to recommend its architecture of the seventies--let it
stand for what it was--had not been replaced by one of stone freshly
polished each year! The butler who opened the door was new and stiffer
than the one of the old days; but he saw that the broad hall, with the
stairs running across the rear in their second flight, was little more
changed than the exterior.

Five years since he had left that hall! He was in the thrall of
anticipation incident to seeing old associations with the eyes of
manhood. The butler made to take his hat, but Jack, oblivious of the
attention, went on to the doorway of the drawing-room, his look centering
on a portrait that faced the door. In this place of honor he saw a
Gainsborough. He uttered a note of pained surprise.

"There used to be another portrait here. Where is it?" he demanded.

The butler, who had heard that the son of the house was an invalid, had
not recovered from his astonishment at the appearance of health of the
returned prodigal.

"Upstairs, sir," he answered. "When Mr. Wingfield got this prize last
year, sir--"

Though the butler had spoken hardly a dozen words, he became conscious
of something atmospheric that made him stop in the confusion of one
who finds that he has been garrulous with an explanation that does
not explain.

"Please take this upstairs and bring back the other," said Jack.

"Yes, sir. You will be going to your room, sir, and while--" The butler
had a feeling of a troublesome future between two masters.

"Now, please!" said Jack, settling into a chair to wait.

The Gainsborough countess, with her sweeping plumes, her rich, fleshy,
soft tones, her charming affectation, which gave you, after the art
interest, no more human interest in her than in a draped model, was
carried upstairs and back came the picture that it had displaced. The
frame still bore at the bottom the title "Portrait of a Lady," under
which it had been exhibited at the Salon many years ago. It was by a
young artist, young then, named Sargent. He had the courage of his
method, this youngster, no less than Hals, who also worked his wonders
with lit