Rudyard Kipling 99 one were an angel and painted humans altogether from outside, one would lose in touch what one gained in grip.” Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an angel. “But you seem to think,” she said, “that everything nice spoils your hand.” “I don’t think. It’s the law, — just the same as it was at Mrs. Jennett’s. Everything that is nice does spoil your hand. I’m glad you see so clearly.” “I don’t like the view.” “Nor I. But — have got orders: what can do? Are you strong enough to face it alone?” “I suppose I must.” “Let me help, darling. We can hold each other very tight and try to walk straight. We shall blunder horribly, but it will be better than stumbling apart. Maisie, can’t you see reason?” “T don’t think we should get on together. We should be two of a trade, so we should never agree.” “How I should like to meet the man who made that proverb! He lived in a cave and ate raw bear, I fancy. I'd make him chew his own arrow-heads. Well?” “T should be only half married to you. I should worry and fuss about my work, as I do now. Four days out of the seven I’m not fit to speak to.” “You talk as if no one else in the world had ever used a brush. D’you suppose that I don’t know the feeling of worry and bother and can’t-get-at-ness? You re lucky if you only have it four days out of the seven. What difference would that make?” “A great deal — if you had it too.” “Yes, but I could respect it. Another man might not. He might laugh at you. But there’s no use talking about it. If you can think in that way you can’t care for me — yet.” The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks and