"Ah, Mallard, to be sure."
Mrs. Bradshaw looked at her hostess and smiled knowingly.
"Miss Doran is rather fond of talking about Mr. Mallard," she remarked. "Did you notice that, Miriam?"
"Yes, I did."
Jacob broke the silence.
"How does he get on with his painting?" he asked—and it sounded very much as though the reference were to a man busy on the front door.
"He's never likely to be very popular," replied Spence, adapting his remarks to the level of his guests' understanding. "There was something of his in this year's Academy, and it sold at a tolerable price."
"That thing of his that I bought, you remember—I find people don't see much in it. They complain that the colour's so dull. But then, as I always say, what else could you expect on a bit of Yorkshire moor in winter? Is he going to paint any-
