‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Mr Quillian, when he had read this out, ‘this is a problem where the question of definition may arise. For instance, a child in a railway carriage offers a traveller a small piece of deteriorated bun. We will suppose that the hour is eight in the morning and that the traveller has not partaken of food since the previous midnight. In the improbable event of his consuming the—er—proffered dainty, he has undoubtedly broken his fast. But can he be said to have breakfasted? All I can say is that if the question of definition should arise to-night I will do my best to deal with it on common-sense lines, accurately but without pedantry.’ The chairman then called upon Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., to give his experiences. Wildersley was a man of middle age who, like many artists, retained something of the child in his composition. He was a big, good-tempered man of rather rugged appearance. The cigars provided by the club, good though they were, had no attraction for him. He was a pipe-smoker, and between his sentences he contrived to keep his pipe alight. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I mayn’t be a winner, but I can’t be far out. I’ll tell you how I set about it. You may have noticed that chaps in the country with little places—three or four acres—are often very keen about them. In fact, the smaller the place the keener they are. My frame-maker, who lives near Harrow, used to spend most of his Sunday afternoon sitting behind a curtain with the window open, listening to what passers-by had to say about the godetias in his front garden. His daughter sometimes sits for me, and she told me that if the compliments on the garden came in nicely it put him in such a good temper that he used to let the family off church in the evening. I decided to work on the pride that the owner or tenant has in his place. I went down to the outer suburban belt—the part that they call the real country—and put up at an hotel. Then bright and early one morning I started out with my painting contraptions. I very soon spotted a place that I knew must be picturesque, because it had got some clipped yews and a sun-dial; besides, as the gate informed me, it was called the Dream House, and that proved it. So in I went, pitched my easel half-way up the drive, and got to work. An old gardener came up and asked me if I knew that I was trespassing. So I gave him a shilling, my card, and my apologies. I told him to keep the shilling and to deliver the card and apologies to his master as soon as that gentleman got down. That seemed to meet the case. In half an hour I had knocked off something showy, and then down the drive towards me came the owner, all smiles and Norfolk jacket, with a Cocker spaniel trailing behind him. I gave him the sketch, and he was as pleased as Punch about it. He took me round the garden to point out other picturesque spots, and then brought me into the house to introduce me to his family. Nice people, very. Almost before I knew it I was