Dion known to her
extraordinary friend, Mr. Thrush of Abingdon Buildings, John's Court,
near the Edgware Road, the old gentleman who went to fetch his sin every
evening, and, it is to be feared, at various other times also, in a jug
from the "Daniel Lambert." Dion had often laughed over Rosamund's "cult"
for Mr. Thrush, which he scarcely pretended to understand, but Rosamund
rejoiced in Dion's cult for the stalwart Jenkins.

"I like that man," she said. "Perhaps some day----" She stopped there,
but her face was eloquent.

In his peculiar way Jenkins was undoubtedly Doric, and therefore
deserving of Rosamund's respect. Of Mr. Thrush so much could hardly be
said with truth. In him there were to be found neither the stern majesty
and strength of the Doric, nor the lightness and grace of the Ionic.
As an art product he stood alone, always wearing the top hat, a figure
Degas might have immortalized but had unfortunately never seen. Dion
knew that Mr. Thrush had once rescued Rosamund in a fog and had conveyed
her home, and he put the rest of the Thrush matter down to Rosamund's
genial kindness towards downtrodden and unfortunate people. He loved her
for it, but could not help being amused by it.

When Dion arrived at the gymnasium, Jenkins was giving a lesson to a
small boy of perhaps twelve years old, whose mother was looking eagerly
on. The boy, clad in a white "sweater," was flushed with the ardor of
his endeavors to punch the ball, to raise himself up on the bar till
his chin was between his hands, to vault the horse neatly, and to turn
somersaults on the rings. The primrose-colored hair on his small round
head was all ruffled up, perspiration streamed over his pink rosy
cheeks, his eyes shone with determination, and his little white teeth
were gritted as, with all the solemn intensity of childhood, he strove
to obey on the instant Jenkins's loud words of command. It was obvious
that he looked to Jenkins as a savage looks to his Tribal God. His
anxious but admiring mother was forgotten; the world was forgotten;
Jenkins and the small boy were alone in a universe of grip dumb-bells,
heavy weights, "exercisers," boxing-gloves, horizontal bars, swinging
balls and wooden "horses." Dion stood in the doorway and looked on till
the lesson was finished. It ended with a heavy clap on the small boy's
shoulders from the mighty paw of Jenkins, and a stentorian, "You're
getting along and no mistake, Master Tim!"

The face of Maste