een the picture of the year."

"I think it very likely."

"Yes, I know what you mean, you sarcastic old ruffian. But there's
another point of view. Is the drawing good or not? Is the colour good
or not? Of course you know nothing about it, but I tell you, for your
information, I think it's a confoundedly clever bit of work. There
remains the subject, and where's the harm in it? The incident's quite
possible. And why shouldn't the girl be good-looking?"

"Angelic!"

"Well why not? There _are_ girls with angelic faces. Don't I know one?"

Warburton, who had been sitting with a leg over the arm of his chair
suddenly changed his position.

"That reminds me," he said. "I came across the Pomfrets in Switzerland."

"Where? When?"

"At Trient ten days ago. I spent three or four days with them. Hasn't
Miss Elvan mentioned it?"

"I haven't heard from her for a long time," replied Franks. "Well, for
more than a week. Did you meet them by chance?"

"Quite. I had a vague idea that the Pomfrets and their niece were
somewhere in Switzerland."

"Vague idea!" cried the artist "Why, I told you all about it, and
growled for five or six hours one evening here because I couldn't go
with them."

"So you did," said Warburton, "but I'm afraid I was thinking of
something else, and when I started for the Alps, I had really forgotten
all about it. I made up my mind suddenly, you know. We're having a
troublesome time in Ailie Street, and it was holiday now or never. By
the bye, we shall have to wind up. Sugar spells ruin. We must get out
of it whilst we can do so with a whole skin."

"Ah, really?" muttered Franks. "Tell me about that presently; I want to
hear of Rosamund. You saw a good deal of her, of course?"

"I walked from Chamonix over the Col de Balme--grand view of Mont Blanc
there! Then down to Trient, in the valley below. And there, as I went
in to dinner at the hotel, I found the three. Good old Pomfret would
have me stay awhile, and I was glad of the chance of long talks with
him. Queer old bird, Ralph Pomfret."

"Yes, yes, so he is," muttered the artist, absently. "But Rosamund--was
she enjoying herself?"

"Very much, I think. She certainly looked very well."

"Have much talk with her?" asked Franks, as if carelessly.

"We discussed you, of course. I forget whether our conclusion was
favourable or not."

The artist laughed, and strode about the room with his hands in his
pockets.

"You know what?" he exclaime