"My worst enemy has never called my work that," said the artist. "Perhaps you would appreciate it better if you held it the other way up."
It is at a moment like this that my wife shines.
"I should like to see it in a better light," she said. "But how interesting! Everyone paints now-a-days—even Royalty. My cousin, Sir Ethelwyn Drewitt, has done some charming water-colours of the family estates. Perhaps you know him?"
Our host shook his head.
"A very old family, like your own," said Matilda. "Our ancestors probably knew each other in the days of Stonehenge. I, of course, recognised the coat-of-arms on your plate."
"I am afraid you are in error," said the artist. "My name is Pitts. And I don't go back beyond my grandfather, who, honest man, kept a grocer's shop in Dulwich. The jug you've been admiring I bought in the Caledonian Cattle Market for fifteen shillings."
Matilda swooned. The air was certainly very close down there.
THE WAR-DREAM.
I Wish I did not dream of France