George started. "You mean him?" he said, pointing to my portrait.
"That?" cried Margery. "The man you're painting? Oh, no. It wasn't him. At least," she added, leaning forward and looking carefully at the picture, "I don't think so."
"But it must have been," cried George. "He was here five minutes ago, and no other man—it must have been him."
"But the one I saw was clean-shaven," said Margery.
George pointed to my portrait with a shaking finger. "Isn't that one clean-shaven?" he wailed.
"So it is," said Margery. "For the moment, the shadow—"
"I'll never paint again!" said George fiercely. "They've hung over each other's portraits for a week—" "Oh!" cried Margery. "And the first time they see one another, they don't know one another from Adam."
"Did you find the post office all right?" said I. Then I came out.
"One thing," said Margery. "Did the Tube stick?"
George stared at her. "Then you were here," he gasped.