I saw at a glance that the make-up and proportion of the machine were all right, for the back hood, when loosened, sank low enough for me to see my subject over its edge (an essential for me, who paint with my back to the driver, my easel and charcoals on the cushion of the main seat).

The chauffeur was all right too - no question about that; a well-built, broad-shouldered man of forty, with clean-cut features, straight nose, firm, straight mouth — a mere slit of a mouth - and a straight look out of his eyes. There was, moreover, no unnecessary shunting alongside the curb, no talking back just a bend of his head in close attention, so as to miss no word, and an earnest, responsive glance.

"To Charter House, up Smithfield way," I said, after the porter had stowed in my canvas, charcoal box, and easel. "Yes, sir," and he touched the edge of his hat brim with the tip end of his forefinger.

"Better go out through Holborn and the Market," I added.

"Yes, sir" -the finger again at the brim. This time it was the knuckle that touched the edge, followed by a slight pause the salute of a soldier to his superior officer.

"And slow down when you pass Staple Inn."

"Yes, sir" - no touch now; the necessary courtesies and civilities having been accorded - and we were off.

CHAPTER I

GREY FRIARS

THE CHARTER HOUSE

S WE whirled up Holborn, I caught now and then,

through the side window of the taxi, glimpses of

places I knew. At Staple Inn was the entrance gate where I had once painted in the rain, my feet on a plank to keep them off the soggy, water-soaked grass the day the old porter had thawed me out before his soft-coal fire, and I had sent for something warmer, which we shared between us. Then I overlooked the Market, with its long line of big white wagons filled with the carcasses of the night's kill; and a little later plunged into the unknown, up a side alley, down the street of St. John, around a silent, deserted Square, hemmed about by an iron railing, the sad, melancholy trees standing like homeless tramps, the raindrops dripping from their broad, leaf-covered shoulders - nothing so depressing as a London park in a wet fog-and last, up a still narrower street until we stopped at the ancient gateway in Cistercian Square where lies the old Hospital of Grey Friars.

We had reached it at last — the very street that the Colonel had trod on his daily walks to the city, Pendennis

and Clive sometimes beside him, their anguished hearts full of an unspoken tenderness. Ethel, too— brave, loyal Ethel, who had discovered the letter bequeathing her "dear, dear uncle" £500, had passed through this very gate eager to carry the news to the Colonel. Pendennis, on whose arm she entered, was a happy man that day.

"As we traversed the court the Poor Brothers were coming from dinner," he says. "A couple of score, or more, of old gentlemen in black gowns issued from the door of their refectory and separated over the court, betaking themselves to their chambers. Ethel's arm trembled under mine as she looked at one and another, expecting to behold her dear uncle's familiar features. But he was not among the brethren. We went to his chamber, of which the door was open; a female attendant was arranging the room; she told us Colonel Newcome was out for the day, and thus our journey had been in vain.'

Neither did I find him at home. The same old porter listened attentively to my request, and, in reply, pointed to the house of the Head Master. He had grown younger, of course, in all the years, but he wore the same livery - the same coat for all I know. And the same old Head Master welcomed me, holding my card in his hand, looking at me over the top of his glasses - a brave, thoughtful man of seventy, perhaps, with a cheery, hearty manner, and one of those fresh English complexions that neither age nor climate affects. I forget what his name was in the Colonel's time, but it is the Reverend Mr. Davies now.

He led me to a wide, open court, framed about by quaint buildings, and covered by clean gravel, over which strolled