He blinked at Gethryn. "These Frenchmen," said he, "have as many
lives as a cat."

"Thanks!" said Gethryn, smiling faintly.

"An Englishman! The devil!" shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in
haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block
as he did so.

"Don't be an ass," suggested Gethryn; "you'd much better help me to
get up."

"Look here," cried the other, "how was I to know you were not done
for?"

"What's the matter with me?" said Gethryn. "Are my -- my legs
gone?"

The little man glanced at Gethryn's shoes.

No, they're all there, unless you originally had more than the normal
number -- in fact I'm afraid -- I think you're all right.

Gethryn stared at him.

"And what the devil am I to do with this sketch?" he continued,
kicking the fallen block. "I've been at it for an hour. It isn't half
bad, you know. I was going to call it `Love in Death.' It was for the
London Illustrated Mirror."