'In the advertisement pages,' said Annette. 'Mr Sellers drew that
picture of the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile Settee and the tin of
sardines in the Little Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good at
still life.'

There was a tense silence. Beverley could almost hear the voice of the
referee uttering the count.

'Miss Brougham,' said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, 'has
confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There is
another.'

'Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds only
eight months ago, didn't you? And another three months before that.'

It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room.

Beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with
it.

'What are you doing?' demanded Annette, in a choking voice.

'The fragments of the wretched man,' whispered Beverley. 'They must be
swept up and decently interred. You certainly have got the punch, Miss
Brougham.'

He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette had
suddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her hands
she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately.