"Don't mind him!" she said. "That's his way. He possesses a curious form of humour—a very twisted form sometimes. You're a queer man, Jimmie, aren't you? And I gave you such a splendid character last night!—said that you'd have been furious if I hadn't insisted on bringing Mr. Craye in, and lots more—didn't I, Mr. Craye?"
"Well, I'd certainly rather see him sitting there alive, eating his bacon, than dig him out of the snow, dead," remarked Mr. Parslewe, good-humouredly. "But Craye, now—do you happen to be related to Craye, the landscape painter?"
"I am Craye, the landscape painter, Mr. Parslewe," I replied. "That's why I'm in this neighbourhood. I was looking out all yesterday for a likely subject."
His face lighted up with genuine pleasure, and he stretched out his hand across the table and shook mine heartily.
"Man!" he exclaimed, "I'm delighted to have you in my house! You're a clever young fellow; I've admired your work ever since I was first privileged to see it. And bought it,
