Then another thing struck me.

“I thought you weren’t going to have it in uniform?”

“I didn’t at first.  But we’ve been trying it in different costumes since to—­to ease the face a little.  It looked awful in mufti.  Like a—­a—­”

“Go on,” I said, nerving myself to it.

“Like an uneasy choir-boy.  I think I shall send it back again and ask him to put it in a surplice.”

“Yes, but why should my wife dangle a beneficed member of the Established Church of England round her neck?  What proud prelate—­”

“Choir-boy, darling.  You’re thinking of bishops.”

As it happened my thoughts were not at all episcopal.  On the contrary, I looked at the miniature again, and I looked at myself in the glass, and I said firmly that the thing must go back a fourth time.

“You can’t wear it.  People would come and ask you who it was and you couldn’t tell them.  You’d have to keep it locked up, and what’s the good of that?”

“I can’t write again,” said Celia.  “Poor man!  Think of the trouble he’s had.  Besides I’ve got you back now.  It was really just to remind me of you.”

“Yes, but I shall frequently be out to tea.  You’d better have it done properly now.”

Celia was thoughtful.  She began composing in her mind that fourth letter ... and frowning.

“I know,” she cried suddenly. “You write this time!”

It was my turn to be thoughtful....

“I don’t see it.  How do I come in?  What is my locus standi?  Locus standi,” I explained in answer to her raised eyebrows, “an oath in common use among our Italian allies, meaning—­What do I write as?”

“As the owner of the face,” said Celia in surprise.

“Yes, but I can’t dilate on my own face.”

“Why not?” said Celia, bubbling.  “You know you’d love it.”

I looked at the miniature and began to think of possible openings.  One impossible one struck me at once.

“Anyway,” I said, “I’ll get him to close my mouth.”

* * * * *

The stars represent something quite simple this time—­my brain at work.

“Celia,” I said, “I will write.  And this time the miniature shall be criticised properly.  To say, as you no doubt said, ’This is not like me,’ I mean not like my husband—­well, you know what I mean—­just to condemn it is not enough. I shall do it differently.  I shall take each feature separately and dwell upon it.  But to do this modestly I must have a locus—­I am sorry to have to borrow from our Italian allies again—­a locus standi apart from that of owner of face.  I must also be donor of miniature.  Then I can comment impartially on the present which I am preparing for you.”

“I thought you’d see that soon,” smiled Celia.

A.A.M.

* * * * *

[Illustration r30/075th:  Recruiting Sergeant.  “WHAT ARE YOU FOR?”