It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. ’ Gerald grinned. You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their ancient taste for long-pig. I’ve never met any one like you.
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