Rudyard Kipling 53 under its own command, Dick, advancing, said “Halloo!” after the manner of schoolboys, and Maisie answered, “Oh, Dick, is that you?” Then, against his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie’s face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely — “What has happened to Amomma?” “He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. Isn’t it funny?” “Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?” “Ye — es. No. This. Where have you come from?” “Over there,” He pointed eastward through the fog. “And you?” “Oh, I'm in the north, — the black north, across all the Park. I am very busy.” “What do you do?” “T paint a great deal. That’s all I have to do.” “Why, what’s happened? You had three hundred a year.” “T have that still. I am painting; that’s all.” “Are you alone, then?” “There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk so fast, Dick; you’re out of step.” “Then you noticed it too?” “Of course I did. You’re always out of step.” “So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with the painting?” “Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton’s in St. John’s Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted, — I mean I went to the National, — and now I’m working under Kami.”