wife's going to be prematurely overtaken, all owing to a piece of soap which that there careless gal of yours has left upon the stairs, I thought you'd like me to mention it"
"Gill," observed Mr. Major, as they crossed the road towards Waterloo Bridge, "you're drunk."
"Not me. I haven't had so much as a drop this day. It's something wrong with the works, that's what it is. I keep seeing visions, or something. If I'd been a drinker I should say I'd got 'em. But it isn't that, I know."
"Perhaps you're going to be a prophet after all—not three winners for seven-and-six, but the bona fide article."
"That's what I'm afraid of," sighed Mr. Gill.
When they reached the centre of the bridge Mr. Major drew Mr. Gill aside into one of the embrasures.
"Come, Gill, I'll give you a chance to exercise your prophetic gifts. Am I going to sell that picture of mine which the President and Fellows have done me the honour to sky in their exhibition at Burlington House?"
Mr. Major asked the question lightly—but there was a suspicion of earnestness beneath the lightness. Mr. Gill paused before replying. His eyes looked out over the stream.
"Yes, you are."
"Oh, I am, am I? When?"
"Next week."
"So soon as that, my Gill! Come, we're getting on. And who will be the purchaser?"
"A gal."
