said. 

 “Yes, here I am,” agreed Kirk affably. 

 “Is this yours?” 

 “It is.” 

 “You painted it?” 

 “I did.” 

 “It is poor. It shows a certain feeling for colour, but the drawing is weak,” said Mrs. Porter. For this wonderful woman was as competent at art criticism as at automobile driving and first aid. “Where did you study?” 

 “In Paris, if you could call it studying. I’m afraid I was not the model pupil.” 

 “Kindly come down. You are giving me a crick in the neck.” 

 Kirk descended. He found Mrs. Porter still regarding the masterpiece with an unfavourable eye. 

 “Yes,” she said, “the drawing is decidedly weak.” 

 “I shouldn’t wonder,” assented Kirk. “The dealers to whom I’ve tried to sell it have not said that in so many words, but they’ve all begged me with tears in their eyes to take the darned thing away, so I guess you’re right.” 

 “Do you depend for a living on the sale of your pictures?” 

 “Thank Heaven, no. I’m the only artist in captivity with a private income.” 

 “A large income?” 

 “’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. All told, about five thousand iron men per annum.” 

 “Iron men?” 

 “Bones.” 

 “Bones?” 

 “I should have said dollars.” 

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