THEY went across to the Corfield Arms. It was an old, romantic looking inn, spoiled a little in these later days by contiguity to a great hive of commerce. But there were occasions, even now, when it retained something of the halo of ancient peace it was wont to bear; and the afternoon being Friday was an off day for visitors. When Bill and Melia passed through the bowling green at the back of the house to the arbor where last they had sat in the days of their courtship they found it empty.

In the garden by the arbor an old man was plucking raspberries. He turned out to be the landlord, and to the secret gratification of Melia he addressed Bill as “sir,” out of deference to his uniform. Upon receiving the Corporal’s commands he called loudly for “Polly.”

In two shakes of a duck’s tail Polly appeared: a blithe beauty in a clean lilac print dress, a little shrunk in the wash, which showed to advantage the lovely lines of her shape and the slender stem of a brown but classic neck in which a nest of red-gold hair hung loose. The Corporal ordered a royal repast for two persons; a pot of tea, boiled eggs, bread and butter, cake, and a little of the honey for which the house used to be famous.

While they waited for the tea, the Corporal gave the old chap a hand with the raspberries. “Happen you remember Torrington, the artist who lived up at Dibley?”

“Aye.” The old man remembered him without difficulty. “Knew him well when I was young. Soft Jack we used to call him; an old man and just a bit touched like as I remember him. Long beard he had and blue eyes—wonderful blue eyes had that old feller. Out painting in the open all day long, in all weathers. I used to stand for hours and watch him. He’d paint a bit, and then he’d paint it out, and then he’d paint it in again. ’Course he was clever, you know, in a manner of speaking. Nobody thought much of him then, but in these days, if you’ll believe me, I’ve known people come specially from London to ask about him.”

The Corporal turned to Melia with an air of discreet triumph. But Melia was so drowsy that she said she would go into the arbor until the tea came. She was encouraged to do so while the landlord went on, “I was a bit of a favorite with old Soft Jack. Many’s the boy I’ve lammoxed for throwing stones at his easel. Of course, at the time I speak of, the old chap had got a bit tottery; he lived to be tight on ninety. But as I say nobody thought much of him, yet if you’ll believe me it’s only last year, or the year before last—I’m getting on myself—that a college gentleman came down here to write a book about him. A very nice civil-spoken gentleman; but fancy writing a book about old Soft Jack!”

“Ever buy any of his pictures?”

“My father did. Gave as much as five pounds for one, more out of charity than anything, I’ve heard him say, but if you’ll believe me when the old boy was dead my father sold that picture for twenty pounds, and they tell me—I’ve not seen it myself—that that picture is now in our Art Gallery, and the college gentleman I’m speaking of—I forget his name—says folk come from all parts of the world to look at it.”

“Happen there was the sun in it,” said the Corporal.

“Very like. Most of his pictures had the sun in ’em, what I remember. You know they do say that that old chap could look at the sun with the naked eye. And such an eye as it was—like an eagle’s, even when he was old and past it.”

“Got any of his pictures now?”

“Can’t say I have. My father had one or two odd bits, but he sold ’em or gave ’em away. No good having a picture, I’ve heard the dad say, unless you’ve a frame to put it in. And frames was dear in those days. If you’ll believe me, the frame often cost more than the picture.”

“Pity you haven’t one or two by you now. They do say all Torrington’s pictures are worth a sight o’ money.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. Money’s more plentiful now than it used to be. My father was ’mazed when he got twenty pounds for the one he sold, and he heard afterwards it fetched as high as fifty. But I’m speaking, of course, of when the old man was dead. That reminds me, the old chap, being very hard up, painted our signboard. It wants a fresh coat now, but it’s wonderful how it’s lasted.”

The Corporal, in his devotion to art, ceased to pick raspberries, and accompanied by his host, went to look at the expression of Soft Jack’s genius upon the ancient front of the Corfield Arms. As they crossed the bowling green they came upon the smiling and gracious Polly, who bore a tea tray heavily laden.

“Lady’s in the summerhouse.” The gallant Corporal returned smile for smile. “Tell her to pour out the tea and I’ll be along in a jiffy.”

The signboard, after all, was not much to look at. The arms of the Corfields consisted in the main of a rampant unicorn, reft by the weather of a good deal of paint. But even here, by some miracle, the sunlight was shining on the noble horns of the fabulous animal, but whether the phenomenon was due to purely natural causes on this glorious afternoon of July, or whether the great artist was personally responsible for it was more than Corporal Hollis was able to say. It needed the trained eye of a Stanning, R.A., or of a young Nixey, the architect, to determine the point, but in the right-hand corner of the signboard beyond a doubt, as the landlord was able to indicate with an air of pride, was Soft Jack’s monogram, J. T.

Somehow the monogram saved the signboard itself from being a washout as a work of art, and the Corporal felt grateful for it as he returned to the arbor to drink tea with his wife, while the landlord, less of a critic, went back to the raspberries in his prolific garden.

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