'Winifred!' I exclaimed; and then the hallucination passed, and Sinfi's features were reflected in the water. My exclamation had the strangest effect upon Sinfi. Her lips, which usually wore a peculiarly proud and fearless curve, quivered, and were losing the brilliant rosebud redness which mostly characterised them. The little blue tattoo rosettes at the corners of her mouth seemed to be growing more distinct as she gazed in the water through eyes dark and mysterious as Night's, but, like Night's own eyes, ready, I thought, to call up the throbbing fires of a million stars. 'What made you cry out "Winifred"?' she said, as the music ceased. 'What you told me about the spirits following the crwth was causing the strangest dream,' I answered. 'I thought I saw Winnie's face reflected in the water, and I thought she was in awful distress. And all the time it was your face.' 'That wur her livin' mullo,' said Sinfi solemnly. Convinced though I was that the hallucination was the natural result of Sinfi's harping upon the literal fulfilment of the curse, it depressed me greatly. Close to this beautiful spot we came suddenly upon two tourists sketching. And now occurred one of those surprises of which I have found that real life is far more full than any fiction dares to be. As we passed the artists, I heard one call out to the other, with a 'burr' which I will not attempt to render, having never lived in the 'Black Country': 'You have a true eye for composition; what do you think of this tree?' The speaker's remarkable appearance attracted my attention. 'Well,' said I to Sinfi, 'that's the first time I ever saw a painter shaven and dressed in a coat like a Quaker's.' Sinfi looked across at the speaker through the curling smoke from my pipe, gave a start of surprise, and then said: 'So you've never seed _him_? That's because you're a country Johnny, brother, and don't know nothink about Londra life. That's a friend o' mine from Londra as has painted me many's the time.' 'Painted you?' I said; 'the man in black, with the goggle eyes, squatting there under the white umbrella? What's his name?' 'That's the cel'erated Mr. Wilderspin, an' he's painted me many's the time, an' a rare rum 'un he is too. Dordi! it makes me laugh to think on him. Most Gorgios is mad, more or less, but he's the maddest 'un I ever know'd.' We had by this time got close to the painter's companion, who, sitting upright on his camp-stool, was busy with his brush. Without shifting his head to look at us, or removing his eyes from his work, he said, in a voice of striking power and volume: 'Nothing but an imperfect experience of life, Lady Sinfi, could have made you pronounce our friend there to be the maddest Gorgio living.' 'Dordi!' exclaimed Sinfi, turning sharply round in great astonishment. 'Fancy seein' both on 'em here!'