ideas of amusing himself, and as soon as he had
washed and changed back into his own clothes, he followed the sounds
of music until he reached the drawing-room.

"I'm sure you must feel dreadfully tired," Gladys said, leaving off
playing. "It was too bad of Father to make you work like that."

"I'm afraid your father thinks me a very useless article," Shiel
replied, seating himself in an easy chair, and trying his hardest not
to look too ardently. "And an artist is not much good outside his
profession."

"Who is?" Gladys smiled. "Shall you still go on painting?"

"Now that my uncle has died? It all depends--depends on whether he has
been able to leave me anything in his will. From one or two things
your father has said I fear he has not--in which case I don't quite
know what I shall do. I could hardly expect Mr. Martin to take me into
his firm."

"Aren't you any good at invention?" Gladys asked, "I know he wants
some one who is--some one who can help him devise fresh tricks. This
everlasting racking of the brains to think of something new is
beginning to be too much for him."

"I wish I could be of some use," Shiel said, "both for his sake and
mine, and may I add yours. Anyhow I'll try. I have a certain amount of
imagination--I suppose most artists have, and henceforth I'll devote
it to trickery."

"No, not to trickery!" Gladys said, "to conjuring!"

"Well, to conjuring then--to planning something novel and startling in
the way of a trick. And as they say, two heads are better than one,
perhaps, you will help me."

"I," Gladys laughed, "why I've never invented anything in my life,
barring a song."

"Nevertheless I'm sure you would be of great help to me," Shiel said;
"you would at least criticize my efforts, wouldn't you?"

"Oh! I should certainly do that," Gladys laughingly rejoined, "and
probably do more harm than good."

"You could never do any harm!" Shiel said, with so much eagerness that
Gladys got up and began searching for a piece of music. "I would give
anything to paint you."

"I have been painted--twice," Gladys observed.

"For the R.A.?"

"Yes! I didn't much care about it, and I grew desperately tired of
sitting."

"Who painted you?"

"Heniblow painted me once, and Darker painted me once."

"Then it's useless for me even to think of it. How did they treat you
in their pictures?"

"Heniblow painted me in evening dress, and Darker painted me in the
character of Enid--you know, the En