"What for?" asked Paul.

"Because you're a picturesque person. Now, I suppose you'll be
asking me what's the meaning of picturesque?"

"Nay," said Paul. "I know. Yo' see it in books. 'Th' owd grey tower
stood out picturesque against the crimson sky.'"

"Hullo! you're a literary gent," said the young man.

"Ay," replied Paul proudly. He was greatly attracted towards this
new acquaintance, whom, by his speech and dress and ease of manner,
he judged to belong to the same caste as his lost but
ever-remembered goddess.

The young man picked up pencil and sketch-book and posed Paul at the
end of the seat by the trestle table. "Now, then," said he, setting
to work. "Head a little more that way. Capital. Don't move. If
you're very quiet I'll give you a shilling." Presently he asked,
"What are you? If you hadn't been a literary gent I'd have thought
you might be a gipsy."

Paul flushed and started. "I'm not a gipsy."

"Steady, steady," exclaimed the artist. "I've just said you couldn't
be one. Italian? You don't look English."

For the first time the idea of exotic parentage entered Paul's head.
He dallied for a moment or two with the thought. "I dunno what I