ess of you," answers Simon rather
sadly. "I'm sure, Nina, I know your face by heart. But I'm determined
to take enormous pains with this picture. It's to be my great work. I
want them to admire it at the Academy. I want all London to come and
look at it. I want the critics, who know nothing, to say it's well
drawn; and the artists, who do know something, to say it's well
treated; and the public to declare my fairy queen is the loveliest,
and the sweetest, and the dearest face they ever beheld. You see I'm
very--very--_ambitious_, Nina!"

"Yes, I suppose all painters are," replies Miss Algernon, with a
little gasp of relief, accompanied by a little chill of something not
quite unlike disappointment. "But you ought to be tired of working,
and I know I am tired of sitting. Hand me my bonnet, Simon--not upside
down--why that's the top where the rose is, of course! And let's walk
back through the Park. It will be nearly full by this time."

So they walked back through the Park, and it _was_ full--full to
overflowing; nevertheless, amongst all the riders, drivers, sitters,
strollers, and idlers, there appeared neither of the smart-looking
gentlemen who had roused Nina's indignation by bowing to her in the
morning without having the honour of her acquaintance.

CHAPTER XIV

THE OFFICERS' MESS

A gigantic sentry of her Majesty's Household Cavalry paces up and down
in front of the officers' quarters at Knightsbridge Barracks some two
hours before watch-setting. It is fortunate that constant use has
rendered him insensible to admiration. Few persons of either sex pass
under his nose without a glance of unqualified approval. They marvel
at his stature, his spurs, his carbine, his overalls, his plumed
helmet, towering high above their heads, and the stupendous
moustaches, on which this gentleman-private prides himself more than
on all the rest of his heroic attributes put together.

Beyond a shade of disciplined weariness, there is no expression
whatever on his handsome face, yet it is to be presumed that the man
has his thoughts too, like another. Is he back in Cumberland amongst
his dales, a stalwart stripling, fishing some lonely stream within the
hills, watching a bout at "knurr-and-spell" across the heather, or
wrestling a fall in friendly rivalry with his cousin, a son of Anak,
tall as himself? Does that purple sunset over Kensington Gardens
remind him of Glaramara and Saddleback? Does that distant roar of