gave us the vegetables." Then aloud, "Come in. Mind the steps."

I damaged my hat slightly against the roof, and I am afraid Matilda's
dress suffered a little, but we managed to enter their dug-out. The
place was faintly lighted by a sort of window overlooking the third
hole of the deserted golf course. Our host introduced his wife.

"We were not really nervous," said the lady, "but a fragment of shell
came through the studio window and destroyed a number of my husband's
pictures. He is a painter of the Neo-Impressionistic School."

"What a shame!" said Matilda, taking up a canvas. "May I look? Oh! how
pretty."

"My worst enemy has never called my work that," said the artist.
"Perhaps you would appreciate it better if you held it the other way
up."

It is at a moment like this that my wife shines.

"I should like to see it in a better light," she said. "But how
interesting! Everyone paints now-a-days--even Royalty. My cousin, Sir
Ethelwyn Drewitt, has done some charming water-colours of the family
estates. Perhaps you know him?"

Our host shook his head.

"A very old family, like your own," said Matilda. "Our ancestors
probably knew each other in the days of Stonehenge. I, of course,
recognised the coat-of-arms on your plate."