"Knocked out by a b-brutal husband," said Mark, grinning, but ill at ease beneath Pynsent's chaff.
"What are those stains on the apron—red paint?"
"Sheep's blood. I rubbed it on myself."
Pynsent roared; he was not a Barbizonian.
"Great Scott! You fellows take yourselves seriously."
"Honestly," said Mark. "What d'ye think of it?"
"It's good—in streaks," said Pynsent solemnly. Then his eyes flashed. "Look here, Mark, they won't hang that. But I've told Lady Randolph and Miss Kirtling that you will have a 'machine' in the Salon. Now, have you the pluck to scrape this and paint it out—to-night?"
"Yes," said Mark.
Next day Pynsent led the way into the forest of Fontainebleau, Mark following like a faithful spaniel. They walked for miles. Finally, Pynsent discovered a bank of cool-looking sand in the heart of a pine wood; upon the sand were wonderful shadows and reflections.
"Voila notre affaire!" exclaimed Pynsent.