"Yes, he told me all about it. The Kind Young Hearts, the Unwanted Doggies, Tommy Smith--everything. I made him tell me every shred of the story. I would not have missed a word of it. It was priceless--immense--the most brilliant thing I ever heard of! As a brother-artist, in a smaller and less remunerative way, I beg to offer you my felicitations and thanks. But our young friend Philip appears to have found his share of the work uncongenial. Apparently his conscience--" "Not his conscience," interposed Uncle Joseph: "his disposition. The boy is a born sentimentalist, like his father before him. I had noticed the paternal characteristics developing for some time, and I expected an upheaval sooner or later. The--the event to which reference has been made precipitated matters, that is all." "Quite so," agreed Mr. Mablethorpe. "But whatever his underlying forces may be, your nephew appears to be a youth of some directness of character. When I intercepted him yesterday he was on his way to Coventry, with the intention of studying the mechanics of automobilism. He is now in my house, and on my representations has agreed to place his future unreservedly in your hands. But I don't think you will persuade him to go back to the Little Tommy Smith business, you know." "There is no need," said Uncle Joseph. "Little Tommy Smith is dead, and his works have perished with him." "So I had gathered," said Mr. Mablethorpe. "How?" asked Uncle Joseph, a little startled. Mr. Mablethorpe waved his hand in the direction of the window. "Partly from the presence of that board outside," he said, "and partly because, in the light of--of recent events, any other _dénouement_ would have been an inartistic anticlimax, contrary to the canons of the best fiction." Uncle Joseph surveyed his rather unusual visitor with interest. "You appear to know something of men and women," he said. "I have to," explained Mr. Mablethorpe. "I make a living by studying the weaknesses of mankind and publishing the results of my observations at four-and-sixpence net." "A novelist, I gather." "Yes, but of the obsolete school. I hate your morbid, soul-dissecting, self-centred pessimist like poison. I go in for happy endings and the eternal good in human nature. In this respect I rejoice to observe that you are not going to disappoint me." Uncle Joseph's cold blue eyes glowed suddenly. "No, thank God!" he said; "I am not." After that he told Mr. Mablethorpe the rest of the story.