"You are in his good books now," said the bronze-haired girl, stroking him gently down the back with her fingers. "He thinks that people who provide food cannot be altogether bad." I handed her the plate. "To give tongue," I said, "is the recognized method of expressing friendship in canine circles." "And, I suppose, giving the only plate implies the same idea amongst human beings?" "George and I generally eat off paper," I replied. "We prefer it. We are leading the simple life." "Yes," she said; "I heard you yesterday. If I remember rightly, you had arrived at the conclusion that all was vanity." I held out a cunningly carved slice of bread-and-butter. "George," I said, "was responsible for the song, and Solomon for the sentiments. I am innocent." She accepted both the bread-and-butter and the apology. "You are an artist," she said, "to say nothing of being a knight-errant. One cannot have all the talents." "When I was a small boy," I remarked, "I remember I had a nurse who used to check my incipient tendency to sarcasm by saying warningly: 'Hush, Master Jack! No one will love you if you talk like that.'" "No, no!" she cried, with a protesting little laugh. "I really meant it for a compliment. I paint very badly myself, but I know good work when I see it. Yours is delightful." "I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion," I said. She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock bewilderment. "And who is Mr. Rosenthal? He sounds very rich." "He is a patron of the arts," I explained. "His father provided the British army with shoe-leather for some years, and the son dispenses the proceeds from a castle at Cookham. This trifle has been commissioned for the banquet-hall." "You must feel very proud," she observed gravely. "May I look at it more closely?" I handed her the canvas, and, propping it up in her punt, she proceeded to criticize it with an intelligence and knowledge that considerably surprised me. "I have my doubts as to your painting so badly," I said, with some suspicion. She shook her head. "My father is an artist," she answered. "I have inherited his taste without his abilities." "Has he a taste for cheap claret?" I inquired, holding up the bottle. "For about half a glass, I think." I poured it out, and filled my own. "To Mr. Rosenthal," she said gaily. "For my own part," I said, "I shall drink to Winston Churchill. I find his habit of upsetting baskets a most commendable one."