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 sudden nose-dive. He came, in fact, within an ace of a crash.

June's cheeks grew flame-colour. An idiot less divine would have given her a kiss and have had done with it, but in some ways he was a shocking dunce.

"I expect you are surprised to see me here, aren't you?"

She could but stammer that she was very much surprised.

"Sir Arthur has asked me to re-hang some of these." A rather proud wave of the hand towards those august walls shewed that he was human. "And he has commissioned me"—She heard again that dying fall which always touched her ear with ecstasy—"to go over this Jan Vermeer most carefully with warm water and cotton wool."

June knitted her brow in order to accompany his finger in its mystical course.

"A Jan what?" she said, achieving a frown. Had it been possible at this early stage of convalescence to achieve a note of reproof, that authentic touch would not have been lacking.

William's the blame for a lost opportunity. But life is full of gaffes on the part of those who ought to know better. The ability of William was beyond dispute. Miss Babraham had acclaimed it, whereby she was no more than the mouthpiece of her father, that famous connoisseur who said openly that the discoverer of the Van Roon was a genius. To Sir Arthur it was miraculous that a tiro should expose the treasure to the view in a fashion so accomplished. It hardly seemed possible to remove the burdens of overgrowth laid by time and the vandal fingers of inferior artists upon that delicate