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thoughtfully at the canvas, stealing an occasional glance at the Princess. A quarter of an hour passed.

"How are you getting on?" asked Prudence, politely, without looking across.

"Oh, famously! I—I am almost ready to start."

"But you haven't done a thing yet!" she cried, in simulated surprise, viewing the canvas.

"No, not yet. You see, I have to wait for inspiration. Quite frequently it doesn't come for—hours!"

"Mr. Fallon," she said, sternly, "you came here on pretence of painting. If you don't paint, I must insist that you go away again."

"I don't like the sound of that word 'pretence,'" he answered, shaking his head grievedly.


"Then you must do something."

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