"That's the style!" cried Mr. Wellcome heartily, deceived by appearances. "_Hoooosh!_... Short head!--Hi, Bonzoline ... what's your name ... Lorenzo! Hurry up with them liqueurs, and then go downstairs, and feel in the right-hand pocket of my overcoat, and you'll find a bundle of toothpicks--and hi!--see whether my Missis has changed the boy yet ... I want to show 'em his legs, tell her.... Talk about 'legs'!... But you'll see...." They had seemed to be merry up to then; but all agreed afterwards that only with the bringing up of the coffee and liqueurs and toothpicks did what might be called the _real_ merriment begin. At six o'clock that evening Amory and Cosimo took tea in the studio in Cheyne Walk and compared notes of the events of the day. Cosimo was ecstatic. He had not believed such things existed. Amory's utterances, too, were as breathless and explosive as his own, but seemed somehow to lack ring. A close observer might have supposed her to be acting a brightness. Then for the twentieth time Cosimo guffawed. "But you lost your bet, Amory--he _didn't_ say, 'May all your troubles be little ones!'" "But he showed us the baby's legs." "I admit he did that. That was rather beyond rubies." "And he handed the toothpicks round." "So he did. I shall keep mine--die in defence of it. And you'll find that horse's name written on my heart. A horse-race at a wedding!--Oh, oh, I'm not complaining! It was all you promised, and more!" "I thought perhaps you were disappointed," Amory remarked. "Good heavens, no! I wouldn't have missed it for worlds! (But, of course, your aunt was charming.)... _Isn't_ Mr. Massey fond of the police sergeant!" "Sickly sentiment, I call it," said Amory abruptly. "Oh no, not if you take it as part of the general show," Cosimo explained. "Damon and Pythias, I suppose; not having a brother, can't say. But the thing can't be taken to bits. It was a perfect whole. I wonder what there _is_ about a perfect whole that makes it far more than the sum of the parts?" "Eh?... Oh yes, it is more," said Amory. "More?... Rather! Why, take it in art...." "Don't talk about art to-night, Cosimo, please," she said. "You always give me so much to think of when you talk about art." "Tired?" said Cosimo solicitously, bending over the back of her chair. "A little." Amory could not have told why she was tired. She only knew that, to-night somehow, Cosimo did not seem as intuitive as he usually was. PART II I PENCE