st, they tell me. I will ask Cowley," he said.

A few days later he found the secretary in his office.

"I have found out all about that artist man," he said.

"Custance? Does he know anything about art?"

"Do you know anything about law? He's a classic winner, the very deuce
of a top-notcher. He's been hung over and over again. You can't teach
him anything about art," replied Gurner.

"I wonder if he would lecture for us?"

"Leave him to me. A nice fellow; we fraternised over fishing, with a
whisky and soda to wash it down. He began to tell me tall stories, and I
added six inches to everyone he produced. I will secure him for you."

This he did the following day, for Custance was quite an obliging man,
and a personal friend of the artist who had refused the invitation.

The news spread, as it usually does in a country town, and interest in
the lecture became phenomenally keen. The intellectuals had for once
secured public support. They promptly raised their charge for admission
from sixpence to one shilling, with an additional sixpence for booking.
They advertised the attraction in capital letters and created a furore.
The consequence was that the learned and those who assumed the virtue
combined to fill the hall to overflowing.

Custance was an ideal lecturer. He took possession of the platform and
audience in an easy, unassuming manner, and delivered an address amusing
and learned, yet understandable. And well he might, for he was not a
mere painter, but one who had lectured on art to select audiences, and
had sold pictures at fabulous prices. At this very moment London was
asking, "Where is Custance?" and here he was in Grey Town.

The town would have made much of him had he permitted it. But he was
there for work and quiet. A shoal of invitations were fired at him and
refused; he preferred to lapse into obscurity. A few of the more
obtrusive attempted to force their society on him: to these he was
frankly rude. The more tactful fell in with his humour, and were content
to nod to him.

Sylvia Jackson was introduced, but beyond a passing glance of admiration
Custance relegated her to forgetfulness. She was, however, determined to
know him, and she engineered a second meeting with her usual diplomacy.

"A picnic to the beach would be ideal," she suggested. "Not to the
frequented part, but to that quiet little beach near the mouth of the
Grey. Just ourselves, Mrs. Quirk, you and Kathleen, and I."

She kne