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MEN I HAVE PAINTED began that quaint custom of the butterfly of slowly opening and shutting its wings. The little portrait of Gladstone was in the exhibition. My feelings were aroused, in spite of the flash of cold reason that I bring to bear upon all things called superstitious, and, as I listened to Ford's tale of awards that always followed the visit of the prophetic butterfly, my eagerness to see the fulfilment of the prophecy made me quicken my steps towards the entrance of the great building close at hand. So unlike the raven perched upon the marble bust of Pallas, croaking "never more," was this other winged thing, luminous as that wonderful crescent distinct with a duplicate horn, lightly poised on the dark coat of Onslow Ford, that I almost began to believe the potency of the message, and that its tidings might be of joyful import.

We entered the great hall of sculpture, and here the papillon took flight and volleyed about in graceful curves among the bronzes and marbles and plaster casts that encumbered without embellishing the lofty conservatory. Ford's attention was diverted at once to the sculpture; the last Dallou, the Fremiet, or the Rodin must be seen, and his own work searched out among the myriads of exhibits.

At last we were in the picture galleries, and presently I espied the little portrait, and on the frame was a yellow placard. With an increased beating of the pulse I hurried to the picture, exclaiming, "'Mention Honorable!' Ford; you see the oracle spoke truly." I was satisfied. Had it been a medal, perhaps my pleasure would have been just a shade greater. I do not know. But this was not all; like the honours announced to Macbeth, the greater was to come. On returning to the hotel I found a formal communication from the Minister of the Fine Arts requesting