to Bagshot, a young artist: "How does the dompteuse come on?"

"Well, I think it's chic enough. She's magnificent. The colour of her
skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a
sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There's never been
such a Una. I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off,

'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket,
And say a poor buffer lies low!'"

"Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering.

The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly

"What do you know about it?"

"I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her."

"How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in
Bagshot's voice.

"Who says you are painting her?"

The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong
voice rang down the table: "Will you let me come and see your canvas some
day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture 'A Passion in the
Desert,' at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free
and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you."

The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and