“What for?” asked Paul.

“Because you’re a picturesque person.  Now, I suppose you’ll be asking me what’s the meaning of picturesque?”

“Nay,” said Paul.  “I know.  Yo’ see it in books.  ‘Th’ owd grey tower stood out picturesque against the crimson sky.’”

“Hullo! you’re a literary gent,” said the young man.

“Ay,” replied Paul proudly.  He was greatly attracted towards this new acquaintance, whom, by his speech and dress and ease of manner, he judged to belong to the same caste as his lost but ever-remembered goddess.

The young man picked up pencil and sketch-book and posed Paul at the end of the seat by the trestle table.  “Now, then,” said he, setting to work.  “Head a little more that way.  Capital.  Don’t move.  If you’re very quiet I’ll give you a shilling.”  Presently he asked, “What are you?  If you hadn’t been a literary gent I’d have thought you might be a gipsy.”

Paul flushed and started.  “I’m not a gipsy.”

“Steady, steady,” exclaimed the artist.  “I’ve just said you couldn’t be one.  Italian?  You don’t look English.”

For the first time the idea of exotic parentage entered Paul’s head.  He dallied for a moment or two with the thought.  “I dunno what I am,” he said romantically.

“Oh?  What’s your father?” The young man motioned with his head toward the inn.

“Yon’s not my father,” said Paul.  “It’s only Barney Bill.”

“Only Barney Bill?” echoed the other, amused.  “Well, who is your father?”

“Dunno,” said Paul.

“And your mother?”

“Dunno, either,” said Paul, in a mysterious tone.  “I dunno if my parents are living or dead.  I think they’re living.”

“That’s interesting.  What are you doing with what’s-his-name Bill?”

“I’m just travelling wi’ him to London.”

“And what are you going to do in London?”

“I’ll see when I get there,” said Paul.

“So you’re out for adventure?”

“Ay,” said the boy, a gleam of the Vision dancing before his eyes.  “That’s it.  I’m going on an adventure.”

“There, keep like that,” cried the artist.  “Don’t stir.  I do believe I’m getting you.  Holy Moses, it will be great!  If only I could catch the expression!  There’s nothing like adventure, is there?  The glorious uncertainty of it!  To wake up in the morning and know that the unexpected is bound to happen during the day.  Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Ay,” said Paul, his face aglow.

The young man worked tense and quick at the luminous eyes.  He broke a long silence by asking, “What’s your name?”

“Paul Kegworthy.”

“Paul?  That’s odd.”  In the sphere of life to which the ragged urchin belonged Toms and Bills and Jims were as thick as blackberries, but Pauls were rare.

“What’s odd?” said Paul.

“Your name.  How did you get it?  It’s uncommon.”