After all (I thought testily) Rose might consider himself a confoundedly lucky fellow. What, after all, was he grumbling at? Because he was going to have his precious, precious youth all over again? His health and vigour and strength all over again, so that he could tear a book in two as I might have torn a piece of paper? His clear skin and glossy hair and the keen sight of his eyes once more? He was luckier than poor Madge and myself! And what, if that American was right, was he risking? Nothing that I could see, unless he should go beyond that age of the maximum of his faculties, which he was persuaded he would not do. And in addition to the approaching brilliance of his youth it was not impossible that he would keep the whole of his accumulated experience as well. Not for him that old and bitter cry that has so often been wrung from the rest of us: "Oh for my life over again, knowing what I know now!" So far, at any rate, he was having his life again, knowing all he knew at the turning-point. And the fellow was grumbling! "Now tell me about him," said Madge. But she could not suppress a yawn as she said it. I knew that she, like myself, was longing to slip out of her clothes and to get into bed. "Another time," I said, wearily rising. "Which room are you putting me in?" As she rose I did not notice what it was that she caught up from a side-table and put under her wrap. She preceded me upstairs. The room into which she showed me was one I had occupied before, and only a minor change or two had since been made. One of these caught my eye. It was a leather-framed photograph of Miss Oliphant that stood with the reading-lamp on the bedside table. "Well, good night," Madge yawned. "They'll bring you tea up. Don't read too long--bad for the eyes and the electric-light bill----" Then it was that I noticed the book she had quietly slipped on to the table. It was Mrs Bassett's book, _The Parthian Arrow_. VI Part of the fuss my numerous friends made about my Knighthood was this desire of theirs that my portrait should be painted and hung up in the Lyonnesse Club. Whether in fact I shall ever look down from those buff-washed walls I am at present unable to say. That rests with Miss Julia Oliphant. I myself merely have the feeling that if she doesn't paint me I hardly wish to be painted. Her name was not among those originally chosen by the Portrait Committee and submitted to me. It was Madge who, by half-past twelve the following day, had decided to include her. We were walking along together to Gloucester Road Station. Madge was going out to lunch. "Well, go and see her," she said.... "But they ought to have let you sleep on, George. I wish I hadn't left you that book." "Oh, I'm perfectly fit and fresh. The Boltons, you said? I shall go and see her this afternoon." "You say you don't know her well?" "I've met her once."