“Would they make her Queen?” She asked innocently. She became aware of the Scotch student regarding her with stupendous amazement, a tea-cup poised in one hairy hand and his faceted glasses showing a various enlargement of segments of his eye. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. You are a great deal more like what I was a few months ago than I am now. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. His grip twisted her wrist. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain.
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