They resumed work again; and Gladys retired indoors.  At eleven o’clock John Martin let Shiel go.  “You can amuse yourself till luncheon with books and papers,” he said, “you’ll find plenty of them in my study.  I’ll join you later.”

But Shiel had other ideas of amusing himself, and as soon as he had washed and changed back into his own clothes, he followed the sounds of music until he reached the drawing-room.

“I’m sure you must feel dreadfully tired,” Gladys said, leaving off playing.  “It was too bad of Father to make you work like that.”

“I’m afraid your father thinks me a very useless article,” Shiel replied, seating himself in an easy chair, and trying his hardest not to look too ardently.  “And an artist is not much good outside his profession.”

“Who is?” Gladys smiled.  “Shall you still go on painting?”

“Now that my uncle has died?  It all depends—­depends on whether he has been able to leave me anything in his will.  From one or two things your father has said I fear he has not—­in which case I don’t quite know what I shall do.  I could hardly expect Mr. Martin to take me into his firm.”

“Aren’t you any good at invention?” Gladys asked, “I know he wants some one who is—­some one who can help him devise fresh tricks.  This everlasting racking of the brains to think of something new is beginning to be too much for him.”

“I wish I could be of some use,” Shiel said, “both for his sake and mine, and may I add yours.  Anyhow I’ll try.  I have a certain amount of imagination—­I suppose most artists have, and henceforth I’ll devote it to trickery.”

“No, not to trickery!” Gladys said, “to conjuring!”

“Well, to conjuring then—­to planning something novel and startling in the way of a trick.  And as they say, two heads are better than one, perhaps, you will help me.”

“I,” Gladys laughed, “why I’ve never invented anything in my life, barring a song.”

“Nevertheless I’m sure you would be of great help to me,” Shiel said; “you would at least criticize my efforts, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh!  I should certainly do that,” Gladys laughingly rejoined, “and probably do more harm than good.”

“You could never do any harm!” Shiel said, with so much eagerness that Gladys got up and began searching for a piece of music.  “I would give anything to paint you.”

“I have been painted—­twice,” Gladys observed.

“For the R.A.?”

“Yes!  I didn’t much care about it, and I grew desperately tired of sitting.”

“Who painted you?”

“Heniblow painted me once, and Darker painted me once.”

“Then it’s useless for me even to think of it.  How did they treat you in their pictures?”

“Heniblow painted me in evening dress, and Darker painted me in the character of Enid—­you know, the Enid in the ‘Idylls of the King.’”

“Yes.  But I should like to paint you as ‘Melody in Flower Land.’”