CHAPTER XVII.
A QUESTION OF IDENTITY Mr.Pyecroft's grin grew by degrees more delighted: became the smile of a whimsical genius of devil-may-care, of an exultantly mischievous Pan.

But he offered not a word of comment upon his work.

He was an artist who was, in the main, content to achieve his masterpieces and leave comment and blame and praise to his public and his critics.
He stood up.
"I believe I promised to peel the potatoes and put on the roast," he remarked, and went out.
"Matilda," breathed Mrs.De Peyster, numbed and awed, still aghast, "did you ever dream there could be such a man ?" "Oh, ma'am,--never!"-- tragically, wildly.
"Whatever _is_ he going to do next ?" "I'm sure I don't know, ma'am.

Almost anything." "And whatever is going to happen to us next ?" "Oh, ma'am, it's terrible to think about! I'm sure I can't even guess! Mr.Pyecroft, and all the others, and all these things happening--I'm sure they'll be the death of me, ma'am!" Mrs.De Peyster sprang from her bed.

Despite Matilda's cheap dressing-gown which she wore as appropriate to her station, she made a splendid figure of raging majesty, hands clenched, eyes blazing, furiously erect.
"That man is outrageous!" she stormed.