“Brick!” she said meditatively. “Now I wonders could you explain w’ytheycall pussons ‘bricks’? It’s meant a complimentapparently, but I don’t see ’ow: bricks bein’ ’ardandangular, which I ’ope I ain’t either. Perhaps it alludes to being full baked. Wot do you think, sir?” “I think it’s a very interesting question and that this is excellent beer. I hope it doesn’t ruin your reputation as a teetotaler your purchasing beer?” “It’s a poor sort of repitation as wouldn’t stand a dozen of bassordered forsomeoneelse. Not that people don’t talk when they’ve got no reason for to do so. If people only opened their mouths when there was somethin’ worth comin’ out to come out most folks would go aboutwi’ their mouths shut. We didn’t expect you down afore the springtime anyway, but I keeps everything ready, as you toldmeto, and pleasant nice work it is lookin’ arter ’m. Stoppin’ long, sir?” “A month or so, if you don’t get too tired of me.” Mrs. Witchout smiled broadly, as who should say that the impossible had been mentioned. After lunch, leaving Mrs. Witchout to wash up and set things tidy and ready for tea, Maddison devoted his energies to unpacking and putting everything in order. He took “The Rebel” from its packing-case, and set it up on an easel, and sat down before it. It was a good picture and he knew it, but he knew also how much better he had meant it to be. In the waning afternoon light the unfinished portions scarcely showed; there sat Marian, the rebel, the queen of rebels, bright, beautiful—his, “The Rebel!” Should he paint a companion picture?—Marian sitting by the fireside—here in his cottage studio—the light of love in her eyes. He looked across at the empty chair, a fellow of one that she often sat in at home—there she was visible, to his mind’s eye, sitting there, gracious and lovely—his and his only. CHAPTER XIII THE next morning all trace of mist on the distant sea had vanished, but though the sun shone splendidly, the air still bit shrewdly. West rose with the spirit of discontent in him, breakfasted early and alone, then set out to walk to Rottingdean. Maddison, palette in hand, answered the knock at the door. “Hullo! The early bird does the work,” said West. “May I come in and talk while you paint?” “Come along. You’re a fairly early bird too. There are cigars and cigarettes over there, and an unopened bottle of whisky and a siphon in the locker by the window.” West took a cigar, and then wandered aimlessly about the room, while Maddison worked at “The Rebel.” “Ah! _My_ picture!” exclaimed West, looking over his shoulder. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever done, Maddison. Won’t the critics fight over it. You hit on a thundering good model for it.” “Your picture! I didn’t promise to let you have it. I’m doubtful if I shall sell it at all.”