think it very likely that it was a strain of that boyishness which I
hope survives in us all, and one of whose quaint fancies is an envy of
house-painters, so happy all day with paint-pot and brush and great
smooth boards to dab and smooth, that decided him to do the job himself.
Mr. Moggridge had this great element of refinement, that he thought
nothing honest beneath him.

It was the Friday of the entertainment, about one o'clock, and though
Mr. Moggridge had practically finished the work the day before, he had
slipped in during his lunch-hour to give it a final touch or two. He had
brought his lunch in the form of a pork-pie, and while with one hand he
plunged the pie occasionally among his red whiskers, with the other he
would lean forward and touch up a knot or a nail-hole that needed a
little more paint. And he was proud as a boy of the simple bit of
slap-dashing, and entirely absorbed in it and the pork-pie.

Presently he became aware that he was not alone. Someone had entered
the schoolroom at the far end. He turned round, with the paint-brush in
one hand and the pork-pie in the other, and became abashed, for a
beautiful lady had entered the room and was evidently about to make an
enquiry. The surreptitiousness that seems to inhere in pork-pies
prompted Mr. Moggridge to slip the pie into his trousers' pocket--for
his coat was off, and a white apron had taken its place.

"Just doing a little bit of amateur painting," he explained rather
awkwardly, advancing to the lady.

"So I see," said the lady, with a pleasant smile. "This, I believe, is
Zion Chapel--and I suppose this is the room where I am to recite. My
name is Isabel Strange, and I have come a little earlier, I daresay,