e answer, "I'm glad you think that. Why
do you seem so different to me from other people?" Then suddenly,
there's a look too long between us. "I wish my brother were here to
explain his pictures!" I cry; though I don't wish it at all. It is only
that I must break the silence.

This brings us back to the business in hand. He says, "May I really buy
one of these sketches?"

"Are you sure you _want_ to?" I laugh.

"Sure!" he answers. And I never heard that word sound so nice, even in
my own dear Ireland.

He chooses the cathedral--which he hasn't visited yet. Do I know the
price my brother has decided on? With that question I discover that he
has Madame Mounet's version of our name. Brian and I have laughed dozens
of laughs at her way of pronouncing O'Malley. "_Ommalee_" we are for
her, and "Mees Ommal_ee_" she has made me for her millionaire. For fun,
I don't correct him. Let him find out for himself who we really are! I
say that my brother hasn't fixed a price; but would six hundred francs
seem _very_ high? The man considers it ridiculously low. He refuses to
pay less than twice that sum. Even so, he argues he will be cheating us,
and getting me into hot water when my brother comes. We almost quarrel,
and at last the hero has his way. He strikes me as one who is used to
that!

When the matter is settled, an odd look passes over his face. I wonder
if he has changed his mind, and doesn't know how to tell me his trouble.
Something is worrying him; that is clear. Just as I'm ready to make
things easy, with a question, he laughs.

"I'm going to take you into my confidence," he says, "and tell you a
story--about myself. In Paris, before I started on this tour, a friend
of mine gave a man's dinner for me. He and the other chaps were chaffing
because--oh, because of a silly argument we got into about--life in
general, and mine in particular. On the strength of it my chum bet me a
thing he knew I wanted, that I couldn't go through my trip under an
assumed name. I bet I could, and would. I bet a thing I want to keep.
That's the silly situation. I hate not telling you my real name, and
signing a cheque for your brother. But I've stuck it out for four weeks,
and the bet has only two more to run. I'm calling myself Jim Wyndham.
It's only my surname I've dropped for the bet. The rest is mine. May I
pay for the picture in cash--and may I come back here, or wherever you
are on the fifteenth day from now, and introduce myself prop