d 'em, but couldno' understand 'em reet."

Rowlatt, who had not expected his facetious query to be so answered,
stopped his drawing for a moment. "What in the name of goodness
attracted you to the Thirty-nine Articles?"

"I wanted to learn about things," said Paul.

The young man looked at him and smiled. "Self-education is a jolly good
thing," said he. "Learn all you can, and you'll be a famous fellow one
of these days. But you must cultivate a sense of humour."

Paul was about to seek enlightenment as to this counsel when Barney
Bill appeared, cool and refreshed, from the inn door, and lifted a
cheery voice. "Let's be getting along, sonny."

Rowlatt held up a detaining hand. "Just a couple of minutes, if you can
spare them. I've nearly finished."

"All right, sir," said Barney Bill, limping across the yard. "Taking a
picture of him?"

The artist nodded. Barney Bill looked over his shoulder. "By Gosh!" he
cried in admiration. "By Gosh!"

"It has come out rather well, hasn't it?" said the artist, complacently.

"It's the living image of 'im," said Barney Bill.

"He tells me he's going up to London to seek his fortune," said
Rowlatt, putting in the finishing touches.

"And his 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill, winking at Paul.

Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably. Instinct deprecated crude
revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement. He
felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence. Gutter-bred though he
was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste. Of such
a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been guilty.
Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr. Rowlatt did not
demand explanation.

"A young Japhet in search of a father. Well, I hope he'll find him.
There's nothing like romance. Without it life is flat and dead. It's
what atmosphere is to a picture."

"And onions to a stew," said Barney Bill.

"Quite right," said Rowlatt. "Paul, my boy, I think after all you'd
better stick to Mr.--?"

"Barney Bill, sir, at your service. And, if you want a comfortable
chair, or an elegant mat, or a hearth brush at a ridiculous cheap
price"--he waved toward the van. Rowlatt turned his head and, laughing,
looked into the twinkling black eyes. "I don't for a moment expect you
to buy, sir, but I was only a-satisfying of my artistic conscience."

Rowlatt shut his sketch-book with a snap, and rose. "Let us have a
drink," said he. "Artists should be