limply.

"Yes," said he, with all the casualness that he could assume. "How does
it strike you?" And to himself: "This'll make her see I'm not a mere
lunatic. This'll give her a shaking up."

"I'm sure it's beautiful," she said kindly, but without the slightest
conviction. "What is it? Is that Putney Bridge?"

"Yes," he said.

"I thought it was. I thought it must be. Well, I never knew you could
paint. It's beautiful--for an amateur." She said this firmly and yet
endearingly, and met his eyes with her eyes. It was her tactful method
of politely causing him to see that she had not accepted last night's
yarn very seriously. His eyes fell, not hers.

"No, no, no!" he expostulated with quick vivacity, as she stepped
towards the canvas. "Don't come any nearer. You're at just the right
distance."

"Oh! If you don't _want_ me to see it close," she humoured him. "What a
pity you haven't put an omnibus on the bridge!"

"There is one," said he. "_That's_ one." He pointed.

"Oh yes! Yes, I see. But, you know, I think it looks rather more like a
Carter Paterson van than an omnibus. If you could paint some letters on
it--'Union Jack' or 'Vanguard,' then people would be sure. But it's
beautiful. I suppose you learnt to to paint from your--" She checked
herself. "What's that red streak behind?"

"That's the railway bridge," he muttered.

"Oh, of course it is! How silly of me! Now if you were to put a train on
that. The worst of trains in pictures is that they never seem to be
going along. I've noticed that on the sides of furniture vans, haven't
you? But if you put a signal, against it, then people would understand
that the train had stopped. I'm not sure whether there _is_ a signal on
the bridge, though."

He made no remark.

"And I see that's the Elk public-house there on the right. You've just
managed to get it in. I can recognize that quite easily. Any one would."

He still made no remark.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked gently.

"Going to sell it, my dear," he replied grimly. "It may surprise you to
know that that canvas is worth at the very least L800. There would be a
devil of a row and rumpus in Bond Street and elsewhere if they knew I
was painting here instead of rotting in Westminster Abbey. I don't
propose to sign it--I seldom did sign my pictures--and we shall see what
we shall see.... I've got fifteen hundred for little things not so good
as that. I'll let it go for what it'll fetch. We