“I see everything,” returned the dealer with an oracular smile.  “If you’ve got it here let me look at it, please.”

It cost Stanwell a few minutes’ search to unearth his skit—­a clever blending of dash and sentimentality, in just the right proportion to create the impression of a powerful brush subdued to mildness by the charms of the sitter.  Stanwell had thrown it off in a burst of imitative frenzy, beginning for the mere joy of the satire, but gradually fascinated by the problem of producing the requisite mingling of attributes.  He was surprised now to see how well he had caught the note, and Shepson’s face reflected his approval.

“By George!  Dat’s something like,” the dealer ejaculated.

“Like what?  Like Mungold?” Stanwell laughed.

“Like business!  Like a big order for a bortrait, Mr. Sdanwell—­dat’s what it’s like!” cried Shepson, swinging round on him.

Stanwell’s stare widened.  “An order for me?”

“Vy not?  Accidents vill happen,” said Shepson jocosely.  “De fact is, Mrs. Archer Millington wants to be bainted—­you know her sdyle?  Well, she prides herself on her likeness to little Gladys.  And so ven she saw dat bicture of yours at de Fake Show she made a note of your name, and de udder day she sent for me and she says:  ’Mr. Shepson, I’m tired of Mungold—­all my friends are done by Mungold.  I vant to break away and be orishinal—­I vant to be done by the bainter that did Gladys Glyde.”

Shepson waited to observe the result of this overwhelming announcement, and Stanwell, after a momentary halt of surprise, brought out laughingly:  “But this is a Mungold.  Is this what she calls being original?”

“Shoost exactly,” said Shepson, with unexpected acuteness.  “That’s vat dey all want—­something different from what all deir friends have got, but shoost like it all de same.  Dat’s de public all over!  Mrs. Millington don’t want a Mungold, because everybody’s got a Mungold, but she wants a picture that’s in the same sdyle, because dat’s de sdyle, and she’s afraid of any oder!”

Stanwell was listening with real enjoyment.  “Ah, you know your public,” he murmured.

“Vell, you do, too, or you couldn’t have painted dat,” the dealer retorted.  “And I don’t say dey’re wrong—­mind dat.  I like a bretty picture myself.  And I understand the way dey feel.  Dey’re villing to let Sargent take liberties vid them, because it’s like being punched in de ribs by a King; but if anybody else baints them, they vant to look as sweet as an obituary.”  He turned earnestly to Stanwell.  “The thing is to attract their notice.  Vonce you got it they von’t gif you dime to sleep.  And dat’s why I’m here to-day—­you’ve attracted Mrs. Millington’s notice, and vonce you’re hung in dat new ball-room—­dat’s vere she vants you, in a big gold panel—­vonce you’re dere, vy, you’ll be like the Pianola—­no home gompleat without you.  And I ain’t going to charge you any commission on the first job!”