I can almost see the headlines: ‘Promising Young Artist Beans Baby With Axe.’” 

 I patted his shoulder silently. My sympathy for the poor old scout was too deep for words. 

 I kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn’t seem right to me to intrude on the poor chappie’s sorrow. Besides, I’m bound to say that nurse intimidated me. She reminded me so infernally of Aunt Agatha. She was the same gimlet-eyed type. 

 But one afternoon Corky called me on the ’phone. 

 “Bertie.” 

 “Halloa?” 

 “Are you doing anything this afternoon?” 

 “Nothing special.” 

 “You couldn’t come down here, could you?” 

 “What’s the trouble? Anything up?” 

 “I’ve finished the portrait.” 

 “Good boy! Stout work!” 

 “Yes.” His voice sounded rather doubtful. “The fact is, Bertie, it doesn’t look quite right to me. There’s something about it—My uncle’s coming in half an hour to inspect it, and—I don’t know why it is, but I kind of feel I’d like your moral support!” 

 I began to see that I was letting myself in for something. The sympathetic co-operation of Jeeves seemed to me to be indicated. 

 “You think he’ll cut up rough?” 

 “He may.” 

 I threw my mind back to the red-faced chappie I had met at the restaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough. It was only too easy. I spoke to Corky firmly on the telephone. 

 “I’ll come,” I said. 

 “Good!” 

 “But only if I may bring Jeeves!” 

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