Good-night.' As he repassed through the studio, Torpenhow lifted the cloth above the picture, and almost betrayed himself by outcries: 'Wiped out!--scraped out and turped out! He's on the verge of jumps as it is.

That's Bess,--the little fiend! Only a woman could have done that!-with the ink not dry on the check, too! Dick will be raving mad to-morrow.

It was all my fault for trying to help gutter-devils.

Oh, my poor Dick, the Lord is hitting you very hard!' Dick could not sleep that night, partly for pure joy, and partly because the well-known Catherine-wheels inside his eyes had given place to crackling volcanoes of many-coloured fire.

'Spout away,' he said aloud.
'I've done my work, and now you can do what you please.' He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the long-pent-up delirium of drink in his veins, his brain on fire with racing thoughts that would not stay to be considered, and his hands crisped and dry.