there's nae dooting," said he, addressing himself to the task of
entertaining his rather absent-minded companion.

His advantage lasted but a few moments, however. Byrd, repenting his
strategic error, returned, and in despair of other methods succeeded in
summoning a candid smile.

"Look here, McEwan," said he, with the charm of manner he knew so well
how to assume, "don't mind my irritability; I'm always like that when I'm
painting and any one interrupts--it sends me crazy. The light's just
right, and it won't be for long. I can't possibly paint with anybody
round. Won't you, like a good fellow, get out and let me finish?"

His frankness was wonderfully disarming, but in any case, the Scot was
always good nature's self.

"Aye, I ken your nairves trouble ye," he replied, lumbering to his feet,
"and I'll no disobleege ye, if the leddy will excuse me?" turning to her.

Miss Elliston, who had not looked at Stefan since his outburst, murmured
her consent, and the Scot departed.

Stefan exploded into a sigh of relief. "Thank heaven! Isn't he
maddening?" he exclaimed, reassembling his brushes. "Isn't he the most
fatuous idiot that ever escaped from his native menagerie? Did you hear
him commence to criticize my work? The oaf! I'm afraid--" glancing at her
face--"that I swore at him, but he deserved it for butting in like that,
and he couldn't understand what I said." His tone was slightly, very
slightly, apologetic.