'Go right on,' said Beverley, cordially. 'Don't mind me; it's all for my good.' 'Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. Neither the child nor the cat lives.' He stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands. 'The cat now,' he said. 'It is--how shall I put it? It has no--no--er--' 'That kind of cat wouldn't,' said Beverley. 'It isn't that breed.' 'I think it's a dear cat,' said Annette. She felt her temper, always quick, getting the better of her. She knew just how incompetent Sellers was, and it irritated her beyond endurance to see Beverley's good-humoured acceptance of his patronage. 'At any rate,' said Beverley, with a grin, 'you both seem to recognize that it is a cat. You're solid on that point, and that's something, seeing I'm only a beginner.' 'I know, my dear fellow; I know,' said Sellers, graciously. 'You mustn't let my criticism discourage you. Don't think that your work lacks promise. Far from it. I am sure that in time you will do very well indeed. Quite well.' A cold glitter might have been observed in Annette's eyes. 'Mr Sellers,' she said, smoothly, 'had to work very hard himself before he reached his present position. You know his work, of course?' For the first time Beverley seemed somewhat confused. 'I--er--why--' he began. 'Oh, but of course you do,' she went on, sweetly. 'It's in all the magazines.' Beverley looked at the great man with admiration, and saw that he had flushed uncomfortably. He put this down to the modesty of genius. 'In the advertisement pages,' said Annette. 'Mr Sellers drew that picture of the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile Settee and the tin of sardines in the Little Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good at still life.' There was a tense silence. Beverley could almost hear the voice of the referee uttering the count. 'Miss Brougham,' said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, 'has confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There is another.' 'Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds only eight months ago, didn't you? And another three months before that.' It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room. Beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with it. 'What are you doing?' demanded Annette, in a choking voice. 'The fragments of the wretched man,' whispered Beverley. 'They must be swept up and decently interred. You certainly have got the punch, Miss Brougham.' He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette had suddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her hands she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately. 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 'I'm a cat! I'm a beast! I hate myself!' 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 'I'm a pig! I'm a fiend!' 'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly.