“You see,” he explained, “Gainsborough painted one leg badly, and so he painted it out and fitted another--but Musidora’s third leg came back. Say what you like, there is something displeasing about a woman with an exaggerated number of legs, though some people rather like that kind of thing, saying that a woman can’t have too many....” It was as we turned away, talking loftily about legs, that we were confronted by a tall and dark young man. “Sir,” he addressed Tarlyon, “I would be obliged if you would tell me in which gallery hang the pictures by Manet?” One wondered why he didn’t ask one of the many uniformed men who are strewn about the Gallery for the purpose of being asked that kind of thing. “You are quite sure,” Tarlyon put frankly to him, “that you do not mean Monet?” “Manet,” said the dark stranger, and looked as though he meant it. “Well, then, you’re in luck,” said Tarlyon; “for we, too, were just about to view the Manets. We are partial to Manet. This way.” We followed him like lambs. Tarlyon’s knowledge as to where the Manets were took the form of trying every gallery in which the Manets were not. We repassed Gainsborough’s three-legged lady, Tarlyon commenting. The dark stranger walked silently but firmly. He was a tall young man of slight but powerful build; his nose, which was of the patrician sort, would have been shapely had it not once been broken in such a way that for ever after it must noticeably incline to one side; and, though his appearance was that of a gentleman, he carried himself with an air of determination and assurance which would, I thought, make any conversation with him rather a business. There was any amount of back-chat in his dark eyes. His hat, which was soft and had the elegance of the well-worn, he wore cavalierly. Shoes by Lobb. At last a picture rose before our eyes, a large picture, very blue. Now who shall describe that picture which was so blue, blue even to the grass under the soldiers’ feet, the complexion of the soldiers’ faces and the rifles in the soldiers’ hands? Over against a blue tree stood a man, and miserably blue was his face, while the soldiers stood very stiffly with their backs to us, holding their rifles in a position which gave one no room to doubt but that they were about to shoot the solitary man for some misdemeanour. He was the loneliest looking man I have ever seen. “Manet,” said Tarlyon. The dark young stranger was absorbed; he pulled his hat a little lower over his left eye, so that the light should not obtrude on his vision.... “Come on,” I whispered to Tarlyon, for we seemed to be intruding--so that I was quite startled when the stranger suddenly turned from the picture to me. “You see, sir,” he said gravely, “I know all about killing. I have killed many men....” “Army Service Corps?” inquired Tarlyon. “No, sir,” snapped the stranger. “I know nothing of your Corps. I am a Zeytounli.”