The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I
don't see it." He spoke in polite deprecation. "It seems to me very
nearly perfect." He faced it again. "I can breathe that air."

"So can I," said Uncle William. "So can I."

They stood looking at it in silence. "It'll be fo'-five hours before it
strikes," said Uncle William, thoughtfully.

"Before it--" The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt look in his face
wrinkled a little.

"Before it strikes," repeated Uncle William. "That cloud I p'inted out
to you means business."

The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his
eyes. He turned them on Uncle William. "I see. You were speaking of the
weather?"

"Wa'n't you?" demanded Uncle William.

"Well--partly. Yes, partly. But I'm afraid I was thinking how well it is
done." His face grew dreamy. "To think that paint and canvas and a few
careless strokes--"

"He worked putty hard," broke in Uncle William. Sergia's hand on his arm
stayed him. He remained open-mouthed, staring at his blunder.

But the Frenchman had not perceived it. He accepted the correction with