It is
not a place as much as a state, which is one of its resemblances to
heaven. You see I haven't forgotten all my theology."

"I sometimes think," announced Ishmael, firmly believing what he was
saying, "that it's time I went about a bit. To London and Paris ... the
place can get on quite well without me for a bit."

"My son, be advised by me," said Killigrew gaily; "for good little boys
like you this is a better place than gay, wicked cities. Of course, I'm
not good--or bad either; it's a distinction that doesn't mean anything
to me--but I have to be in Paris for my painting. Can you imagine it,
I've been with Diaz and Rousseau? And there's a young fellow who's
coming on now that I've seen a lot of called Lepage--Bastien Lepage,
who's going to be a wonder. I can tell you, sometimes when I think of
the dear old Guv'nor's business, and how he had set his heart on my
going into it, I can hardly believe it's true that I've been there, free
to do my own work, with those men...."

Killigrew's voice sounded younger in its enthusiasm, more as it had in
the old days when he used to speak of Turner.

"I'll bet you're going to be as great as any," cried Ishmael, the old
sense of potencies that Killigrew's bounding vitality had always stirred
in him awaking again. "How we all used to talk at St. Renny about what
we'd do ... d'you remember?"

"Rather. And it's most of it coming true. I was to be a painter and old
Carminow a surgeon. I've just heard he's at the Charing Cross hospital."

"And Polkinghorne major? D'you know anything about him? Did he get into
his Highland regiment?"

"I heard about him at St. Renny from the old bird. I stopped there last
night, you know, to break this devil of a journey. I tell you, Ishmael,
it's less of a business getting over to Paris than down here."

"What did Old Tring say about everyone? How was he?"

"Just the same, only thinner on top and fatter below. He told me about
Polkinghorne. He went to Italy the year you left, you know. Well, Old
Tring told me while he was still there the war broke out, and he
enlisted under Garibaldi and was killed in a skirmish just when peace
was settled."

There was a second of silence--not because Ishmael had any feeling for
Polkinghorne beyond a pleasant liking, but because it was the first time
the thought of death as an actuality instead of a dreamlike hypothesis
had ever struck home to him. Then he said: "Poor old Polkinghorne ... but
he was ha