Rudyard Kipling 167 turn, and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over for luck. Cover the picture.” He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost before he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow’s hand. “Aren’t you never going to speak to me any more?” she said; but Torpenhow was looking at Dick. “What a stock of vanity the man has! I'll take him in hand tomorrow and make much of him. He deserves it. — Eh! what was that, Bess?” “Nothing. Pll put things tidy here a little, and then I'll go. You couldn’t give the that three months’ pay now, could you? He said you were to.” Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the Melancholia viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster. In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colors. She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, “Bilked!” as she turned to run down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire and who used to make fun of her. Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to Bessie. Then the little privateer sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray wilderness of South-the-Water. Dick slept till late in the evening, when Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes were as bright as his voice was hoarse. “Let’s have another look at the picture,” he said, insistently as a child. “You — go — to — bed,” said Torpenhow. “You aren't