ons."

"And I suppose you're the soldier," she said slowly.

"Yes," I said, "the common soldier."

"Common?"

"Yes, dear," I said, taking her hand. "Common, but thorough;
thoroughly common, but uncommonly thorough. And now look at me, pretty
Princess."

She turned a laughing face to mine. Suddenly, as I bent forward, the
eyes flashed.

"I suppose this is the little smile's fault, too," she said quietly.

Instantly I released her hand and stood up, smiling.

"No," I said gently. "It would have been the soldier's."

For a moment she smiled back. Then she slipped an arm round my neck.

"Let's call it Hans Andersen's," she whispered.

A perfect Babel arose suddenly from the kitchen. In the midst of the
turmoil I seemed to discern Berry's fat laugh. The next second a large
key hurtled through the window.

I picked it up and strode to the door. When I had put it into the
keyhole, I paused.

"Buck up, Boy!" said Berry.

"One question," said I. "Where was the key?"

"Where d'you think?" said Jonah bitterly.

"In his pocket all the time?" said I.

"Right," said Berry. "Now do your worst."

"I'm going to," said I. "I'm going to let you out."

CHAPTER VII

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

The front door banged. Followed quick steps on the steep, uncarpeted
stairs, and a knock on the studio's door.

"Come in," said I.

The door opened and a girl in a lilac dress swept into the room.

"I'm afraid I'm awfully la--O-o-oh!" she said.

"If it isn't her!" said I.

For a moment we stood looking at one another with big eyes. Then:

"Where's Mr. Larel?" she demanded.

"He'll be here in a moment. Won't you sit down? He and I are old
friends."

She smiled.

"I know," she said.

"He's told me--"

"The devil he has," said I.

A little peal of laughter.

"As I feared," said I.

"My dear, you've been misled. Yes. That over there is a chair. It
cost three and ninepence in the King's Road. Local colour, you know.
He's putting it in his new picture, 'Luxury'."

Still smiling, she took her seat. Then:

"He said you were awful," she said.

Till a fortnight ago, I had not seen George Larel for quite five years.
Not since we had been at Oxford together. When he went down, he left
England, to study, I understood. He always drew rather well. Then one
spring morning I struck him in Piccadilly, by the railings of the Green
Park. He was standing still, a large, blue air-ball in h