is hand,
steadfastly regarding the Porters' Rest. Our greeting was
characteristic.

"Well, George," said I. He looked round.

"Hullo, old chap." He pointed to the Rest. "Rather nice, that. Pity
there aren't more. Why didn't they keep the Pike at Hyde Park Corner?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I begged them to," said I. "But you know
what they are."

George looked at me critically. Then:

"That's a good hat," he said. "I'd like to paint you just as you are."
He stepped back and half closed his eyes. "Yes, that'll do. When can
you come? I always said I would, you know," he added.

"You're very good, George. Come to the club and--"

He shook his head. "We'll talk, when you come. I've got to go to
Richmond now." He pointed to the air-ball. "There was a child there
yesterday, playing in the Park, with eyes--I've only seen their like
once before. That was in Oporto." He sighed. "Will you come
to-morrow at eleven? Cheyne Row. I forget the number, but it's got a
green door."

"I'd love to."

He hailed a taxi.

"That's right, then." He turned to the driver. "Go to Richmond," he
said, opening the door.

As it moved, he put his head out of the window.

"Mind you wear that hat, old boy."

The next morning I had my first sitting. It was a great success.
There was much to say, and we talked furiously for three hours. And
all the time I sat still upon the throne, and George painted. About
his work he said little, but I gathered that he had begun to do well.
He mentioned that he had had two or three commissions.

"I'm on that now," he said carelessly, during one of my rests. He was
pointing to a canvas, which leaned--face inwards--against the wall. I
walked across the studio, and turned it round. A girl's picture. A
girl in a flowered dress and a shady hat, her slight shining legs
crossed at the knee. Sitting square in the high-backed chair, he was
painting her, one small hand on each of its rosewood arms. The face
was most of all unfinished.

"You've got those legs well," said I, "And I like the dress. She looks
rather lovely, as far as one can tell without seeing the face."

George laughed.

"She's all right," he said.

At the end of my second sitting George picked up a knife and began
deliberately to scrape out all the work he had done that morning. I
watched him, petrified with horror.

"Sorry, old chap," he said, smiling.

"Stop," I cried. "I like that curve of the nos