have another go when it cools off again down there.' He returned
with a smile, and I saw how delicate his face was. The smile turned
down with a little gentle mockery in its lines. I had seen that
particular smile only on the faces of one or two beautiful women.
It had a borrowed air upon a man, like a tiara or an earring.

'There's plenty to paint,' he said, looking at me with an air of
friendly speculation.

'Indeed, yes. And it has never been done. We are sure it has never
been done.'

'"We"--you mean people generally?'

'Not at all. I mean Miss Harris, Miss Harris and myself.'

'Your daughter?'

'My name is Philips,' I reminded him pleasantly, remembering that
the intelligence of clever people is often limited to a single art.
'Miss Harris is the daughter of Mr. Edward Harris, Secretary of the
Government of India in the Legislative Department. She is fond of
pictures. We have a good many tastes in common. We have always
suspected that India had never been painted, and when we saw your
things at the Town Hall we knew it.'

His queer eyes dilated, and he blushed.

'Oh,' he said, 'it's only one interpretation. It all depends on
what a fellow sees. No fellow can see everything.'