a shade more troubled earnestness in his. But as regards actual distance,
they were still as far apart, although certainly nearer in spirit.

Curiosity as to names is a foible which should be, I am convinced,
discouraged; but on this occasion I could not resist the desire to know
more of such assiduous habitués. Drawing one of the attendants aside, I
asked him if he could tell who these romantic young things were. "To be
sure," he said. "The young gentleman is 'The Blue Boy,' by GAINSBOROUGH,
and the young lady is the Lady ELIZABETH MONTAGU, by REYNOLDS."

Only portraits after all, you say. But don't be too hasty. Go rather to the
National Gallery and see for yourself. Maybe you will then realise that
there is more there than paint....

Shallow people talk about accidents. But the wise know that accidents do
not happen. The wise know that the War broke out in order that Grosvenor
House, where "The Blue Boy" normally resides, and Montagu House, the home
of this little Buccleuch lady with skin like an anemone, might be needed
for War-work, so that when the pictures were sent to the National Gallery
for safer keeping these two might be placed opposite each other in the same
room. Chance? The only chance is destiny.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Munition Worker_. "I'VE BOUGHT A PIANO."

_Foreman_. "GOT ANYBODY AT HOME WHO CAN PLAY IT?"

_Munition Worker_. "NO, NOT AT PRESENT; BUT WE'VE A FRIEND COMING ROUND
THIS EVENING TO PUT US IN THE WAY OF IT."]