rprise that
a man had flown over the North Sea. I think I expressed our mutual
sentiment when I observed that Cecil's story of how Frank Carville won
his bet, and Mr. Carville's own account of the voyage from the Argentine
to Genoa, told us far more about the man than "Vol-Plane's" highly-paid
hack-work.

We had been but a few minutes in the studio before Mr. Carville knocked
and Mac ran down to admit him. We heard the rumble of voices while our
visitor discarded his coat; comments on "the change," and then footsteps
on the stairs. I went to the door to welcome him.

He was standing on the landing, appraising with a quick eye the
Kakemonos and prints that covered the distempered walls. We are rather
proud of our "Japs," as Bill calls them. I even tried to learn something
of the language from the "boy" who was our servant in San Francisco. He
was not a scholarly boy, and he told lies in English, so that it is
possible his tuition was of no value. I remember Bill was ironic
because, when Nakamura was dismissed in ignominy, and wrote on the
kitchen wall for the benefit of his successor, I was unable to decipher
the message.

"Do you care for this sort of thing?" said Mac. "That's original,"
pointing to a fine Hiroshige.

"I used to," replied Carville, feeling for his pipe. "I was a good while
in that trade--coal from Moji to Singapore. I think they're best at a
distance though--the people, I mean."

Mac protested against this "narrow" view.

"Yes, yes, I know," said Mr. Carville, coming into the studio. "I read
Lafcadio Hearn when I was younger; read him again out in Japan. Humph!"

Whether his characteristic ejaculation referred to Hearn or the studio I
cannot determine. His interest was obvious, but it was interest, not of
a connoisseur, but of a man looking round another man's workshop. Von
Roon used to say in Chelsea, "There is hope for him who looks with
attention upon his neighbour's tools." Mr. Carville sank slowly into a
chair, his eyes fixed upon a recent nude study.

"We haven't any Scotch, but if you care for Rye----" said Mac, reaching
for a tray on the throne.

Mr. Carville's eye lost its vague, reflective expression as it fell upon
the tray.

"Ah?" he said, "I'd rather have good Rye than--than--well, you know what
most of the Scotch is here. No--no water, thanks. I take it as I find
it."

It was a new facet of his character, this. We watched him swallow the
neat spirit at a gulp and place the e