saw that, I think, before we saw anything else. Then with as little
haste as was decent, considering His Excellency's proximity, we
walked within range of the picture.

I am not particularly pleased, even now, to have the task of
describing the thing. Its subject was an old Mahomedan priest with
a green turban and a white beard exhorting a rabble of followers. I
heard myself saying to Dora that it was very well painted indeed,
very conscientiously painted, and that is certainly what struck me.
The expression of the fire-eater's face was extremely
characteristic; his arm was flung out with a gesture that perfectly
matched. The group of listeners was carefully composed and most
'naturally'; that is the only word that would come to me.

I glanced almost timidly at Dora. She was regarding it with a deep
vertical line between her handsome brows.

'What--on earth--has he done with himself?' she demanded, but before
I could reply Armour was by our side.

'Well?' he said, looking at Dora.

'It--it's very nice,' she stammered, 'but I miss YOU.'

'She only means, you know,' I rushed in, 'that you've put in
everything that was never there before. Accuracy of detail, you
know, and so forth. 'Pon my word, there's some drawing in that!'

'No,' said Dora, calmly, 'what I complain of is that he has left out
everything that was there before. But he has won the gold medal,