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I HAD always thought Jack Gisburn rather a cheap genius-though a good fellow enough-so it was no great surprise to me to hear that, in the height of his glory, he had dropped his painting, married a rich widow, and established himself in a villa on the Riviera. (Though I rather thought it would have been Rome or Florence.) "The height of his glory"-that was what the women called it. I can hear Mrs. Gideon Thwing-his last Chicago sitter-deploring his unaccountable abdication. "Of course it's going to send the value of my picture 'way up; but I don't think of that, Mr. Rickham-the loss to Arrt is all I think of." The word, on Mrs. Thwing's lips, multiplied its rs as though they were reflected in an endless vista of mirrors.