very ungenerous manner in which you greeted me on my return?”

He coloured a little. Then he laughed.

“I was rather wild,” he admitted. “Saint John with my face, twentieth century get-up, and a nimbus, was a bit too much.”

“Indeed! I thought it rather clever,” Jill modestly remarked.

“Clever, yes; so it was, no doubt. If it hadn’t been so clever, it wouldn’t have been so annoying.”

“It has gone!” she cried, glancing at the table, though she knew already that it was not there. “You are not taking it with you?”

“Yes,” he answered coolly, “I am.”

“But, Mr St. John,” she remonstrated, “I think that I have some claim to my own work.”

“But, Miss Erskine,” he retorted, “I think that I have some claim to my own portrait.”

“Well, never mind,” said Jill. “I can sketch it again if I want to.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but I don’t think you will.”

“Perhaps not. I am not fond of wasting my time; it is too precious.”

St. John laughed and took up his hat.

“Good-bye again,” he said. “I hope by the next time I come that the hand will be quite well.”

“Thank you,” she answered. “I hope it will.”

He had not been gone half an hour when a most unusual thing occurred—unusual, that is, for number 144. It was, indeed, an unprecedented event within the memory of the present owners of the establishment, and quite a shock to the slovenly Isobel who opened the door to the very peremptory knock. It was, in short, a florist’s messenger with a large and magnificent basket of hot-house flowers for Miss Erskine. Not being the locality for such dainty gifts, it was not surprising that, to quote Isobel verbatim, it struck her all of a heap. She carried the basket up to the studio, another unusual event; on the very rare occasions when a parcel arrived for Miss Erskine it was left on the dirty hall 

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