shadow had not come right. He put in a touch of burnt umber and
again considered the effect.

"Confound it! that's all wrong," he muttered.

"It's blue," said Paul.

The artist started, twisted his head, and for the first time became
conscious of the ragamuffin's presence. "Oh, you see it blue, do
you?" He smiled ironically.

"Ay," said Paul, with pointing finger. "Look at it. It's not brown,
anyhow. Yon's black inside and blue outside."

The young man shaded his brow and gazed intently. Brilliant sunshine
plays the deuce with tones. "My hat!" cried he, "you're right. It
was this confounded yellow of the side of the house." He put in a
few hasty strokes. "That better?"

"Ay," said Paul.

The artist laid down his brush, and swung round on his box, clasping
knees. "How the devil did you manage to see that when I didn't?"

"Dun-no!" said Paul.

The young man stretched himself and lit a cigarette.

"What are yo' doing that for, mister?" Paul asked seriously.