Rudyard Kipling IIS it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with any clothes on, under any circumstances. Consequently the last sketch, representing that much-enduring man calling on the War Office to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate. He settled himself comfortably on Torpenhow’s table and turned over the pages. “What a fortune you would have been to Blake, Nilghai!” he said. “There’s a succulent pinkness about some of these sketches that’s more than life-like. “The Nilghai surrounded while bathing by the Mahdieh’ — that was founded on fact, eh?” “It was very nearly my last bath, you irreverent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga yet?” “No; the Binkie-boy hasn’t done anything except eat and kill cats. Let’s see. Here you are as a stained-glass saint in a church. Deuced decorative lines about your anatomy; you ought to be grateful for being handed down to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence you'll exist in rare and curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? The domestic life of the Nilghai?” “Hasn't got any.” “The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of course. Mass-meeting of his wives in Trafalgar Square. That’s it. They came from the ends of the earth to attend Nilghai’s wedding to an English bride. This shall be an epic. It’s a sweet material to work with.” “It’s a scandalous waste of time,” said Torpenhow. “Don’t worry; it keeps one’s hand in — specially when you begin without the pencil.” He set to work rapidly. “That’s Nelson’s Column. Presently the Nilghai will appear shinning up it.” “Give him some clothes this time.” “Certainly — a veil and an orange-wreath, because he’s been married.” “Gad, that’s clever enough!” said Torpenhow over