I looked at the miniature again, and I looked at myself in the glass,
and I said firmly that the thing must go back a fourth time.

"You can't wear it. People would come and ask you who it was and you
couldn't tell them. You'd have to keep it locked up, and what's the
good of that?"

"I _can't_ write again," said Celia. "Poor man! Think of the trouble
he's had. Besides I've got you back now. It was really just to remind
me of you."

"Yes, but I shall frequently be out to tea. You'd better have it done
properly now."

Celia was thoughtful. She began composing in her mind that fourth
letter ... and frowning.

"I know," she cried suddenly. "_You_ write this time!"

It was my turn to be thoughtful....

"I don't see it. How do I come in? What is my _locus standi? Locus
standi_," I explained in answer to her raised eyebrows, "an oath in
common use among our Italian allies, meaning--What do I write as?"

"As the owner of the face," said Celia in surprise.

"Yes, but I can't dilate on my own face."

"Why not?" said Celia, bubbling. "You know you'd love it."