THE MINIATURE.
When I left her, Celia had two photographs, a British warm and an accidental coffee-stain, by which to remember me. The coffee-stain was the purest accident. By her manner of receiving it, Celia gave me the impression that she thought I had done it on purpose, but it was not so. The coffee-cup slipped-in-me-'and-mum, after which the law of gravity stepped in, thus robbing what would have been a polite deed of most of its gallantry. However, I explained all that at the time. The fact remains that, in whatever way you look at it, I had left my mark. Celia was not likely to forget me.
But she was determined to make sure. No doubt mine is an elusive personality; take the mind off it for one moment and it is gone. So I was to be perpetuated in a miniature.
"Can it be done without a sitting?" I asked doubtfully. I was going away on the morrow.
"Oh, yes. It can be done from the photographs easily. Of course I shall have to explain your complexion and so on."
"May I read the letter when you've explained it?"
"Certainly not," said Celia firmly.
"I only want to make sure that it's an explanation and not an apology."
"I shall probably put it down to a bicycle accident. Which is that?—No, no," she added hastily, "Kamerad!"
I put down the revolver and went on with my packing. And a day or two later Celia began to write about the miniature.