“Nonsense, George,” said Kirk. “One of the most entertaining ladies I have ever met. Already I love her like a son. But how she escaped from Bloomingdale beats me. There’s been carelessness somewhere.” The bedrooms attached to the studio opened off the gallery that ran the length of the east wall. Looking over the edge of the gallery before coming downstairs Kirk perceived his visitor engaged in a tour of the studio. At that moment she was examining his masterpiece, “Ariadne in Naxos.” He had called it that because that was what it had turned into. At the beginning he had had no definite opinion as to its identity. It was rather a habit with his pictures to start out in a vague spirit of adventure and receive their label on completion. He had an airy and a dashing way in his dealings with the goddess Art. Nevertheless, he had sufficient of the artist soul to resent the fact that Mrs. Porter was standing a great deal too close to the masterpiece to get its full value. “You want to stand back a little,” he suggested over the rail. Mrs. Porter looked up. “Oh, there you are!” she said. “Yes, here I am,” agreed Kirk affably. “Is this yours?” “It is.” “You painted it?” “I did.” “It is poor. It shows a certain feeling for colour, but the drawing is weak,” said Mrs. Porter. For this wonderful woman was as competent at art criticism as at automobile driving and first aid. “Where did you study?” “In Paris, if you could call it studying. I’m afraid I was not the model pupil.” “Kindly come down. You are giving me a crick in the neck.” Kirk descended. He found Mrs. Porter still regarding the masterpiece with an unfavourable eye. “Yes,” she said, “the drawing is decidedly weak.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” assented Kirk. “The dealers to whom I’ve tried to sell it have not said that in so many words, but they’ve all begged me with tears in their eyes to take the darned thing away, so I guess you’re right.” “Do you depend for a living on the sale of your pictures?” “Thank Heaven, no. I’m the only artist in captivity with a private income.” “A large income?” “’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. All told, about five thousand iron men per annum.” “Iron men?” “Bones.” “Bones?” “I should have said dollars.” “You should. I detest slang.” “Sorry,” said Kirk. Mrs. Porter resumed her tour of the studio. She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, a cheerful little old man with the bearing of one sure of his welcome. He was an old friend of Kirk’s. “Well, what’s the trouble? I couldn’t come sooner. I was visiting a case. _I_ work.” “There is no trouble,” said Mrs. Porter. The doctor spun round, startled. In the dimness of the studio he had not perceived her. “Mr. Winfield’s servant has injured his knee very superficially. There is practically nothing wrong with him. I have made a thorough examination.” The doctor looked from one to the other. “Is the case in other hands?” he asked.