” Chapter XIX “THIS IS NOT THE END” “I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day. I cannot go on. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. But I am always afraid that he may get in while I am away. . ’ ‘There is no need for this,’ he ventured mildly, and lifted his finger to show his own pistol was not cocked.
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