tic person told him that the sight of his "_Dryad
Disturbing a Beanfeast_" had just marked an epoch in her mental
development, and that she considered it quite the supreme achievement of
the Art of the Century. A ponderous man in spectacles, whom TICKLER had no
recollection of having ever met before in his life, encouraged him by his
solemn assurance that his "_Jews Sitting in a Dentist's Waiting-room, in
the reign of King John_," was perfectly marvellous in its realism and
historical accuracy, and that it ought to become the property of the
Nation; while an elderly lady, in furs and a crimped front, declared that
the pathos of his nursery subject--a child endeavouring to induce a
mechanical rabbit to share its bread-and-milk--was sending her home with
tears in her eyes. Some talked learnedly of his "values," his "atmosphere,"
and the subtlety of his modelling; all agreed that he had surpassed himself
and every living artist by his last year's work, and no one made any
mistake about the nature of his subjects, perhaps because--in consideration
for the necessities of the British Art-patron--they had been fully
announced and described in the artistic notes of several Sunday papers.

When they got outside, it is true, their enthusiasm slightly evaporated;
TICKLER was going off, he was repeating himself, he had nothing that was
likely to produce a sensation this year, and most of his pictures would
probably never be seen again.

As, however, these last remarks were not made in TINTORETTO'S presence, it
might have been thought that the unmistakable evidences of his success
which he did hear would have rendered him a proud and happy painter,--but
if he was, all that can be said was that he certainly did not look it. He
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 fra