do not apply to the Johnsons' spiritual father?" suggested
Paul, laughingly.

"Not in the least. If we confounded the errors of the follower with the
message of the Master must not the Messianic tradition have died with
Judas?"

Paul gave an order to the waiter and Don began to load his pipe.
Thessaly watched him, smiling whilst he packed the Latakia mixture into
the bowl with meticulous care, rejecting fragments of stalk as
Paphnutius rejected Thais; more in sorrow than in anger.

"Half the absinthe drinker's joy is derived from filtering the necessary
drops of water through a lump of sugar," he said as Don reclosed his
pouch; "and in the same way, to the lover of my lady Nicotine the
filling of the pipe is a ritual, the lighting a burnt offering and the
smoking a mere habit."

"Quite agree," replied Don, fumbling for matches in the pocket of his
trench-coat, "as the Aunt would say. Our own pipe never tastes so sweet
as the other fellow's smells. There is Chauvin over there and I want to
speak to him. Perhaps he fails to recognise me in uniform. Ah! he has
seen me." He waved his hand to a fresh-coloured, middle-aged man seated
with a lady dressed in green, whose cerise hair lent her an interesting
likeness to a human geranium. Chauvin rose, having obtained the lady's
permission, bowed to her, and coming across to the table, shook Don
warmly by the hand.

"Paul," said Don, "This is Claude Chauvin. You have one of his pictures
in your dining-room. Paul Mario--Mr. Jules Thessaly. Chauvin, I know you
require another assistant in your studio. You cannot possibly turn out
so much black and white stuff for the sporting journals and all those
etchings as well as your big pictures."

"It is hopeless to expect to find anyone to help me," replied Chauvin.
"Nobody understands animals nowadays. I would pay a good assistant any
amount as well as putting him in the way of doing well for himself later
on."

"I am bringing a girl around to you in the morning who knows nearly as
much about animals as you know yourself."

"A girl."

"A girl--yes; a female Briton Riviere."

Chauvin's rather tired-looking eyes lighted up with professional
interest and he bent lower over the table upon which he was resting his
hands. "Really! Who is she?"

"Flamby Duveen. I would never trust her to anybody's care but yours,
Chauvin. She is the daughter of a man who saved my life and she is a
born artist as well. She starts at Guilder's on Mo