The world had been discussing Paul Mario's New Gospel as enunciated in The Gates for three weeks or more. On a bright morning when sunbeams filtered through the dust which partially curtained the windows of Guilder's, and painted golden squares and rectangles upon the floor, Flamby stood where the light touched her elfin hair into torch-like flame, removing a very smart studio smock preparatory to departing to Regali's for lunch. There was no one else in the small painting-room, except a wondrous-hued parrakeet upon a perch, from which he contemplated his portrait in oils, head knowingly tilted to one side, with solemn disapproval for Flamby had painted his bill too red and he knew it, apparently.
"Bad," he remarked. "Damn bad."
He belonged to Crozier, the artist famed for "sun-soaked flesh," and Crozier's pupils were all too familiar with this formula. It was so often upon Crozier's lips that Lorenzo the Magnificent (the parrakeet) had acquired it perfectly.
"Quite right, Lorenzo," said Flamby, throwing her smock on to a stool. "It's blasted bad."
"Damn bad," corrected Lorenzo. "No guts."
"I don't agree with you there, Lorenzo. It's your nose that I hate."
"No sun!" screamed Lorenzo, excitedly. "The bloodsome thing never saw the sun!"
"Oh, please behave, Lorenzo, or I shall not share my sugar ration with you any more."
"Sugar?" inquired Lorenzo, head on one side again.
Flamby held up a lump of sugar upon her small pink palm, and a silence of contentment immediately descended upon Lorenzo, only broken by the sound of munching. Flamby was just going out to wash the paint from her hands, for she always contrived to get nearly as much upon her fingers as upon the canvas, when a cheery voice cried: "Ha! caught you. Thought I might be too late."