n a miniature.

"Can it be done without a sitting?" I asked doubtfully. I was going
away on the morrow.

"Oh, yes. It can be done from the photographs easily. Of course I
shall have to explain your complexion and so on."

"May I read the letter when you've explained it?"

"Certainly not," said Celia firmly.

"I only want to make sure that it's an explanation and not an
apology."

"I shall probably put it down to a bicycle accident. Which is
that?--No, no," she added hastily, "_Kamerad!_"

I put down the revolver and went on with my packing. And a day or two
later Celia began to write about the miniature.

* * * * *

The stars represent shells or months, or anything like that; _not_
promotion. I came back with just the two--one on each sleeve.

We talked of many things, but not of the miniature. Somehow I had
forgotten all about it. And then one day I remembered suddenly.

"The miniature," I said; "did you get it done?"

"Yes," said Celia quietly.

"Have you got it here?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I say, do let me see it."

Celia hesitated.

"I think we had better wait till you are a little stronger," she said
very gently.

"Is it so very beautiful?"

"Well--"

"So beautiful that it almost hurts? Celia, dear, let me risk it," I
pleaded.

She fetched it and gave it to me. I gazed at it a long time.

"Who is it?" I asked at last.

"I don't know, dear."

"Is it like anybody we know?"

"I think it's meant to be like _you_, darling," said Celia tenderly,
trying to break it to me.

I gazed at it again.

"Would you get me a glass?" I asked her.

"A looking-glass, or with brandy and things in it?"

"Both ... Thank you. Promise me I don't look like this."

"You don't," she said soothingly.

"Then why didn't you tell the artist so and ask him to rub it out and
do it again?"

Celia sighed.

"He has. The last was his third rubbige."

Then another thing struck me.

"I thought you weren't going to have it in uniform?"

"I didn't at first. But we've been trying it in different costumes
since to--to ease the face a little. It looked awful in mufti. Like
a--a--"

"Go on," I said, nerving myself to it.

"Like an uneasy choir-boy. I think I shall send it back again and ask
him to put it in a surplice."

"Yes, but why should my wife dangle a beneficed member of the
Established Church of England round her neck? What proud prelate--"

"Choir-boy, darling. You're thin