e doesn't have a
relapse."

"But, laddie," said Archie, puzzled, "you talk as though there were
something wrong with the picture. I thought it dashed hot stuff."

"God bless you!" said J. B. Wheeler.

Archie proceeded on his way, still mystified. Then he reflected that
artists as a class were all pretty weird and rummy and talked more or
less consistently through their hats. You couldn't ever take an artist's
opinion on a picture. Nine out of ten of them had views on Art which
would have admitted them to any looney-bin, and no questions asked. He
had met several of the species who absolutely raved over things which
any reasonable chappie would decline to be found dead in a ditch with.
His admiration for the Wigmore Venus, which had faltered for a moment
during his conversation with J. B. Wheeler, returned in all its pristine
vigour. Absolute rot, he meant to say, to try to make out that it wasn't
one of the ones and just like mother used to make. Look how Lucille had
liked it!

At breakfast next morning, Archie once more brought up the question of
the hanging of the picture. It was absurd to let a thing like that go on
wasting its sweetness behind a sofa with its face to the wall.

"Touching the jolly old masterpiece," he said, "how about it? I think
it's time we hoisted it up somewhere."

Lucille fiddled pensively with her coffee-spoon.

"Archie, dear," she said, "I've been thinking."

"And a very good thing to do," said Archie. "I've often meant to do it
myself when I got a bit of time."

"About that picture, I mean. Did you know it was father's birthday
to-morrow?"

"Why no, old thing, I didn't, to be absolutely honest. Your revered
parent doesn't confide in me much these days, as a matter of fact."

"Well, it is. And I think we ought to give him a present."

"Absolutely. But how? I'm all for spreading sweetness and light, and
cheering up the jolly old pater's sorrowful existence, but I haven't a
bean. And, what is more, things have come to such a pass that I scan the
horizon without seeing a single soul I can touch. I suppose I could get
into Reggie van Tuyl's ribs for a bit, but--I don't know--touching poor
old Reggie always seems to me rather like potting a pitting bird."

"Of course, I don't want you to do anything like that. I was
thinking--Archie, darling, would you be very hurt if I gave father the
picture?"

"Oh, I say!"

"Well, I can't think of anything else."

"But wouldn't you miss it