"Won't do any good," says I. "He's booked up for the rest of the day." "The idea!" says Marjorie. "And he promised faithfully he would go up with me to see those pictures! You just tell him I'm here, that's all." There's more or less light of battle in them bright brown eyes of Marjorie's, and that Ellins chin of hers is set some solid. So when I tiptoes in where they're dividin' the map of the world into sellin' areas, and whispers in Mr. Robert's ear that Sister Marjorie is waitin' outside, I adds a word of warnin'. "It's a case of pictures, you remember," says I. "Oh, the deuce!" says Mr. Robert. "Hang Brooks Bladen and his paintings! I can't go, positively. Just explain, will you, Torchy?" "Sure; but I'd go hoarse over it," says I. "You know Marjorie, and if you don't want the meetin' broke up I expect you'd better come out and face the music." "Oh, well, then I suppose I must," says he, leadin' the way. And Marjorie wa'n't in the mood to stand for any smooth excuses. She didn't care if he had forgotten, and she guessed his old business affairs could be put off an hour or so. Besides, this meant so much to poor Brooks. His very first exhibit, too. Ferdy couldn't go, either. Another one of his sick headaches. But he had promised to buy a picture, and Marjorie had hoped that Robert would like one of them well enough to---- "Oh, if that's all," puts in Mr. Robert, "then tell him I'll take one, too." "But you can't buy pictures without seeing them," protests Marjorie. "Brooks is too sensitive. He wants appreciation, encouragement, you see." "A lot I could give him," says Mr. Robert. "Why, I know no more about that sort of thing than--well, than----" And just here his eye lights on me. "Oh, I say, though," he goes on, "it would be all right, wouldn't it, if I sent a--er--a commissioner?" "I suppose that would do," says Marjorie. "Good!" says Mr. Robert. "Torchy, go with Marjorie and look at that lot. If they're any good, buy one for me." "Wha-a-at!" says I. "Me buy a picture?" "Full power," says he, startin' back towards the meetin'. "Pick out the best, and tell Bladen to send me the bill." And there we're left, Marjorie and me, lookin' foolish at each other. "Well, he's done a duck," says I. "If you mean he's got himself out of buying a picture, you're mistaken," says she. "Come along." She insists on callin' the bluff, too. Course, I tries to show her, all the way up in the limousine, how punk a performer I'd be at a game like that, and how they'd spot me for a bush leaguer the first stab I made. "Not at all," says Marjorie, "if you do as I tell you." With that she proceeds to coach me in the art critic business. The lines wa'n't hard to get, anyway. "For some of them," she goes on, "you merely go 'Um-m-m!' under your breath, you know, or 'Ah-h-h-h!' to yourself. Then when I give you a nudge you may exclaim, 'Fine feeling!' or 'Very daring!' or 'Wonderful technic, wonderful!'"