undeniably low spirited, and
the artist's mood has a way of expressing itself on the palette. She
laughed, with a certain sense of effort.

"I like you best when you sing, Felix. Sometimes, when you speak, you
are Infelix."

"By all means go home," he grinned. "One cannot both joke and copy a
Caravaggio."

He began to paint with feverish industry, did not look at her again, but
tossed an adieu over his humped shoulder when she hurried away. Then he
gazed reproachfully, almost vindictively, at the uplifted eyes of the
transfigured Virgin.

"Now, you!" he growled. "Vous etes benie entre toutes les femmes! This
affair is in your line. Why don't you help? _Saperlotte!_ The girl is
worth it."

CHAPTER II

MONSEIGNEUR

The Wanderers beat Chantilly. One minute before the close of the fourth
chukkur the score stood at four all. Both teams were playing with
desperation to avoid a decider on tired ponies, when the Wanderers'
third man extricated the ball from a tangle of prancing hoofs and
clattering sticks, and Alec Delgrado got away with it. He thought his
pony was good for one last run at top speed, that and no more. Risking
it, he sprinted across two hundred yards of green turf with the
Chantilly Number One in hot chase. His opponent was a stone lighter and
better mounted; so Alec's clear start would not save him from being
overhauled and ridden off ere he came within a reasonable striking
distance of the opposing goalposts. That was the Chantilly man's supreme
occupation,--some experts will have it that the ideal Number One should
not carry a polo stick,--and the pursuer knew his work.

A hundred, eighty, sixty, yards in front Alec saw a goal keeping centaur
waiting to intercept him. In another couple of strides a lean, eager
head would be straining alongside his own pony's girths. So he struck
hard and clean and raced on, and the goalkeeper judged the flight of the
white wooden ball correctly, and smote it back again fair and straight.

It traveled so truly that it would have passed Alec three feet from the
ground to drop almost exactly on the spot whence he had driven it. But
there was more in that last gallop along the smooth lawn than might be
realized by any one present save Alec himself. It was his farewell to
the game. From that day he would cease to be dependent on a begrudged
pittance for the upkeep of his stable, and that meant the end of his
polo playing. But he was not made of the stuff that y