at a very high price one of his landscapes. He was John Trenton, the
artist, of London. Do you know him?"

"Yes," hesitated Trenton, "I know him. I may say I know him very well.
In fact, he is a namesake of mine."

"Why, how curious it is I had never thought of that. Is your first name
J----, the same as his?"

"Yes."

"Not a relative, is he?"

"Well, no. I don't think I can call him a relative. I don't know that I
can even go so far as to call him my friend, but he is an acquaintance."

"Oh, tell me about him," cried Miss Sommerton, enthusiastically. "He
is one of the Englishmen I have longed very much to meet."

"Then you forgave him his rude letter?"

"Oh, I forgave that long ago. I don't know that it was rude, after all.
It was truthful. I presume the truth offended me."

"Well," said Trenton, "truth has to be handled very delicately, or it is
apt to give offence. You bought a landscape of his, did you? Which one,
do you remember?"

"It was a picture of the Thames valley."