Rudyard Kipling 65 over the Queen can do no wrong. It isn’t your selfishness that impresses me. It’s your audacity in proposing to make use of me.” “Pooh! You’re only Dick, — and a print-shop.” “Very good: that’s all I am. But, Maisie, you believe, don’t you, that I love you? I don’t want you to have any false notions about brothers and sisters.” Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped her eyes. “It’s absurd, but — I believe. I wish I could send you away before you get angry with me. But — but the girl that lives with me is red-haired, and an impressionist, and all our notions clash.” “So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three months from today we shall be laughing at this together.” Maisie shook her head mournfully. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, and it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, and tell me what you see.” They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was gathering, and it stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings. Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge of faces to bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet toque. “It’s the same Maisie, and it’s the same me,” he said. “We've both nice little wills of our own, and one or other of us has to be broken. Now about the future. I must come and see your pictures some day, —I suppose when the red-haired girl is on the premises.” “Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are such heaps of things I want to talk about and ask your advice about. Now I must get back to work.” “Try to find out before next Sunday what I am,” said Dick. “Don’t take my word for anything I’ve told you.