pictures, just then, not of this "Jimmy" who was still a mystery to
him. He caught up the subject and said that he didn't understand. What
picture was it of which they spoke? He generally signed his initials,
but they'd mentioned that this was unsigned----

"Don't you remember," I explained, "the sketch I sold for you to Mr.
Wyndham when we were tramping through France? You told me when you came
back from Paris that it wasn't quite finished. You'd meant to put on a
few more touches--and your signature. Well, 'Wyndham' was only the
middle name. I never told you much about that day. I was half ashamed,
because it was the day when my romance began and--broke. I hoped it
might begin again sometime, but--but--you shall hear the whole story
soon. Only--not now."

Even as I promised him, I promised myself to tell him nothing. I might
have to lie in deeds to Brian. I wouldn't lie in words. Mrs. Beckett
might give him her version of her son's romance--some day. Just at the
moment she was relating, almost happily, the story of the picture: and
it was for me, too.

Jim had had a beautiful frame made for Brian's cathedral sketch, and it
had been hung in the best place--over his desk--in the special sanctum
where the things he loved most were put. In starting for Europe his
father and mother had planned to stop only a short time in a Paris
hotel. They had meant to take a house, where Jim could join them
whenever he got a few days' leave: and as a surprise for him they had
brought over his favourite treasures from the "den." Among these was the
unsigned picture painted by the brother of _The Girl_. They had even
chosen the house, a small but charming old chateau to which Jim had
taken a fancy. It was rather close to the war zone in these days, but
that had not struck them as an obstacle. They were not afraid. They had
wired, before sailing, to a Paris agent, telling him to engage the
chateau if it was still to let furnished. On arriving the answer awaited
them: the place was theirs.

"We thought it would be such a joy to Jim," Mrs. Beckett said. "He fell
in love with that chateau before he came down with typhoid. I'll show
you a snapshot he took of it. He used to say he'd give anything to live
there. And crossing on the ship we talked every day of how we'd make a
'den' for him, full of his own things, and never breathe a word till he
opened the door of the room. We're in honour bound to take the house
now, whether or not we use i