"What is the subject?" I asked, after three or four minutes' close inspection.
"I think, Sir," replied my excellent and admirable clerk, "that it's something to do with a donkey."
Portington was right. On closer investigation the painting revealed itself to be the representation of a cottage in the snow, with some villagers drawing water from a half-frozen pond in the neighbourhood of a rather intelligent donkey, who was watching their proceedings with languid interest.
"Certainly it is a donkey," I exclaimed; "and, to my thinking, a very fine one."
"What shall we do with it, Sir?" asked Portington. "It's no good here; shall I give it to the dustman? He would take it away if we asked him."
For a moment I thought my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense) representative was indulging in jocularity. I found I was in error. Portington was absolutely serious.
"You evidently do not know the value of some of these old frames. Of course I shall take the picture with me to my private residence."
I carried out my intention. The canvas presentment of the donkey and accessories was carefully conveyed in a four-wheeler to Justinian Gardens, where I have rented for some years a very pleasant house. The lady who has honoured me by taking my name, and whom in my more playful humour I sportively term my "better seven-eighths," received me.
"I hope you have brought the music from the Stores," said the lady, after our first greetings. "I suppose that package came from Victoria Street?"
"No, my precious one," I replied; I sometimes use terms of endearment to the members of my domestic circle. "It is a picture given to me by a grateful client."