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 fractious, “the compliments”?

“No, no, my dear boy.  I mean in what a fellow told me outside just now—­that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and carried off all your canvasses—­a lie, of course!”

“Oh, that?” said TICKLER, “that’s true enough—­they left nothing behind ’em but the beastly frames!”

“Then what on earth——?” began the other, in perplexity, for another group was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that demanded the relief of instant expression.

“Well—­er—­fact is,” explained poor TICKLER, in an undertone, “I did think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere—­but my wife wouldn’t hear of it, you know; said it would be such a pity to have had all the expense and trouble for nothing, and didn’t believe the mere absence of pictures would make any particular difference.  And—­er—­I’m bound to say that, as you can see for yourself, it hasn’t!”

And even as he spoke, he had to resign himself once more to a farewell burst of positively fulsome appreciation.

* * * * *

THE KING AND THE CLOWN.

[Illustration:  PAYNFUL PROCEEDINGS; OR, AFTER THE PANTOMIME’S OVER.

[See Times Report, Friday last, April 1st, “All Fools’ Day."]]