t business is business. We must get back to Stratford an' consult
Sam Bossom. And then there's a letter to be written to 'Ucks.
I promised 'im, you know."

They shared their meal by the river bank; and when it was eaten, sat for
a time on the scooped-out brink while Avon ran at their feet--Arthur
Miles searching again in the thumbed pages of _The Tempest_ for a hint
that might perchance have escaped him; Tilda as sedulously intent on a
page of a ladies' newspaper in which the bread had been wrapped.

It informed her, under the heading of _Answers to Correspondents by
"Smart Set,"_ of an excellent home for Anglo-Indian children (gravel
soil), of a new way to clean Brussels lace, of the number of gowns
required in these days for a week-end visit, of a scale of tips for
gamekeepers. It directed her to a manicure, and instructed her how to
build a pergola for an Italian garden, supposing that she lived in
Suffolk and could spare half an acre facing east. She drank in all this
information with an impartial appetite.

"What a favourite it is still, the mushroom 'at!" she spelled out
slowly. "W'y the other day, at Messrs. Freebody and Williams's in
Regent Street, there it confronted me again in a whole bevy of new model
shapes. The medium, in brown Ottoman silk, fronted with wings of fine
brown or blue lustre, is quite ridiculously cheap at 27s. 6d. And a
large hat in black satin, swathed with black chiffon in which lurks just
a touch of real ermine, asks you no more than 35s. 9d. Truly age cannot
wither nor custom stale the infinite variety of the mushroom.'"

"What nonsense are you reading?" the boy demanded.

"Nonsense?" echoed Tilda. "What's nonsense? It's--it's 'eavingly--and
anyway it ain't no farther off than your Island."

They resumed their way, slightly huffed one with another; passed a group
of willows; and came to a halt, surprised and irresolute.

In the centre of a small sunny clearing they beheld a tent, with the
litter of a camp equipage scattered on the turf about it; and between
the tent and the river, where shone the flank of a bass-wood canoe
moored between the alders, an artist had set up his easel. He was a
young man, tall and gaunt, and stood back a little way from his canvas
with paint-brush held at a slope, while across it he studied the subject
of his picture--a grey bridge and the butt-end of a grey building, with
a sign-board overtopping the autumnal willows.

For a few seconds th