figure that approached.
The pointed Van Dyck beard was as carefully trimmed, the hazel eyes,
with their misleading softness of appeal, as arresting as of old.
Perhaps he bore himself with a little more assurance. There might have
been a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successful
artist about him.

But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency which
spoils so many successful men. Always it would be tempered by that
odd, cynical humour of his. Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merely
amused him, and received in return some charming compliment or other
that rang as hollow as a kettle-drum. Politicians who came to him for
their portraits were gently made to feel that their favourite
oratorical attitude--which they inevitably assumed when asked to pose
themselves quite naturally--was not really overwhelmingly effective,
while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio--since
he flatly declined to paint them in their palaces--found that he was
inclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portray
them as though they were merely men and women.

There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a
certain peeress--one of the "new rich" fraternity--who had recently sat
to Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably been
conferred in recognition of the arduous services--of an industrial and
financial nature--which he had rendered during the war. The lady was
inclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rooke
had discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantly
repudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and furs
should be worn.

"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she had
protested. "Of--of just anyone!"

"Of anyone--or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a great
lady should be able to indicate . . . which."

The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea had
been that she should be painted wearing her state robes and
coronet--plus any additional jewels which could find place on her
person.

Maryon bowed affably.

"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require a
portrait, you must go to Gregoire Marni. He paints still-life."

Rooke came into the room and greeted his visitors with outstretched
hands.

"My dear Penelope and Ralph," he began cordially. "This is good of
busy people like yourselves