honest, literal John," he said, lazily.
"Listen; from my back window in the country, yesterday, I observed one
of my hens scratching her ear with her foot. How would you like to be
able to accomplish that, John?"

"I wouldn't like it at all!" roared Burleson in serious disapproval.

"That's because you're a sculptor and a Unitarian," said Annan, gravely.

"My God!" shouted Burleson, "what's that got to do with a hen scratching
herself!"

Ogilvy was too weak with laughter to continue the favourite pastime of
"touching up John"; and Burleson who, under provocation, never exhibited
any emotion except impatient wonder at the foolishness of others,
emptied his claret bottle with unruffled confidence in his own
common-sense and the futility of his friends.

"Kelly, they say, is making a stunning lot of stuff for that Byzantine
Theatre," he said in his honest, resonant voice. "I wish to Heaven I
could paint like him."

Annan passed his delicate hand over his pale, handsome face: "Kelly
Neville is, without exception, the most gifted man I ever knew."

"No, the most skilful," suggested Ogilvy. "I have known more gifted men
who never became skilful."

[Illustration: "'What's the matter with it, then?'"]

"What hair is that you're splitting, Sam?" demanded Burleson. "Don't
you like Kelly's work?"

"Sure I do."

"What's the matter with it, then?"

There was a silence. One or two men at neighbouring tables turned partly
around to listen. There seemed to be something in the very simple and
honest question of John Burleson that arrested the attention of every
man at the Syrinx Club who had heard it. Because, for the first time,
the question which every man there had silently, involuntarily asked
himself had been uttered aloud at last by John Burleson--voiced in utter
good faith and with all confidence that the answer could be only that
there was nothing whatever the matter with Louis Neville's work. And his
answer had been a universal silence.

Clive Gail, lately admitted to the Academy said: "I have never in my
life seen or believed possible such facility as is Louis Neville's."

"Sure thing," grunted Burleson.

"His personal manner of doing his work--which the critics and public
term 'tek--nee--ee--eek,'" laughed Annan, "is simply gloriously
bewildering. There is a sweeping splendour to it--and _what_ colour!"

There ensued murmured and emphatic approbation; and another silence.

Ogilvy's dark, pleasant face was