Rudyard Kipling 61 “No one but myself. I never seem to get on with my work, and yet I try hard enough, and Kami says —” “Continuez, Mesdemoiselles. Continuez toujours, mes enfants.’ Kami is depressing. I beg your pardon.” “Yes, that’s what he says. He told me last summer that I was doing better and he’d let me exhibit this year.” “Not in this place, surely?” “Of course not. The Salon.” “You fly high.” “T’ve been beating my wings long enough. Where do you exhibit, Dick?” “I don’t exhibit. I sell.” “What is your line, then?” “Haven’t you heard?” Dick’s eyes opened. Was this thing possible? He cast about for some means of conviction. They were not far from the Marble Arch. “Come up Oxford Street a little and I'll show you.” A small knot of people stood round a print-shop that Dick knew well. “Some reproduction of my work inside,” he said, with suppressed triumph. Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the tongue. “You see the sort of things I paint. D’you like it?” Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a fieldbattery going into action under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd. “They've chucked the off lead-orse,” said one to the other. “’E’s tore up awful, but they’re makin’ good time with the others. That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. See ’ow cunnin’ ’e’s nursin’ ’is ’orse.” “Number Three’ll be off the limber, next jolt,” was the answer. “No, ’e won't. See ’ow ’is foot’s braced against the iron? ’E’s all right.” Dick watched Maisie’s face and swelled with joy — fine, rank, vulgar triumph. She was more interested in