“My dear boy, I was only jesting,” said Quixtus, touched by his earnestness. “I know that not only are you a devotee—and very rightly so—of Clementina—but that she is a very great painter.” “All the same,” said Tommy, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m afraid that you’re in for an awful time.” “I’m afraid so, too,” said Quixtus, whimsically, “but I’ll get through it somehow.” He did get through it; but it was only “somehow.” This quiet, courtly, dreamy gentleman irritated Clementina as he had irritated her years ago. He was a learned man; that went without saying; but he was a fool all the same, and Clementina had not trained herself to suffer fools gladly. The portrait became her despair. The man had no character. There was nothing beneath the surface of those china-blue eyes. She was afraid, she said, of getting on the canvas the portrait of a congenital idiot. His attitude towards life—the dilettante attitude which she as a worker despised—made her impatient. By profession he was a solicitor, head of the old-fashioned firm of Quixtus and Son; but, on his open avowal, he neglected the business, leaving it all in the hands of his partner. “He’ll do you, sure as a gun,” said Clementina. Quixtus smiled. “My father trusted him implicitly, and so do I.” “A man or a woman’s a fool to trust anybody,” said Clementina. “I’ve trusted everybody around me all my life, and no one has done me any harm, and therefore I’m a happy man.” “Rubbish,” said Clementina. “Any fraud gets the better of you. What about your German friend Tommy was telling me of?” This was a sore point. A most innocent, spectacled, bearded, but obviously poverty-stricken German had called on him a few weeks before with a collection of flint instruments for sale, which he alleged to have come from the valley of the Weser, near Hameln. They were of shapes and peculiarities which he had not met with before, and, after a cursory and admiring examination, he had given the starving Teuton twice as much as he had asked for the collection, and sent him on his way rejoicing. With a brother palæontologist summoned in haste he had proceeded to a minute scrutiny of his treasures. They were impudent forgeries. “I told Tommy in confidence. He ought not to have repeated the story,” he said, with dignity. “Which shows,” said Clementina, pausing so as to make her point and an important brush-stroke—“which shows that you can’t even trust Tommy.” On another occasion he referred to Vandermeer’s famous interview. “You know a friend of mine, Vandermeer,” said he. Clementina shook her head. “Never heard the name.” He explained. Vandermeer was a journalist. He had interviewed her and lunched with her at a restaurant. Clementina could not remember. At last her knitted brow cleared. “Good lord, do you mean a half-starved, foxy-faced man with his toes through his boots?” “The portrait is unflattering,” said he, “but I’m afraid there’s a kind of resemblance.”