tubes with what seemed to be a characteristic orderliness--'or I shall
be in Queer Street. But I think Lord Findon wants it. I shouldn't
wonder if he turned up this afternoon!'

'Ah?' Watson raised his great shoulders with a gesture which might
have been sarcastic, but was perhaps more than anything else languid
and weary. He returned to his own picture, looking at it with a
painful intensity.

'Nobody will ever want to buy that!' he said, quietly.

Cuningham stood beside him, embarrassed.

'It's full of fine things,' he said, after a moment. 'But--'

'You wish I wouldn't paint such damned depressing subjects?'

'I wish you'd sometimes condescend to think of the public, old
fellow!'

'That--_never_!' said the other, under his breath. 'Starve--and please
yourself! But I shan't starve--you forget that.'

'Worse luck!' laughed Cuningham. 'I believe Providence ordained the
British Philistine for our good--drat him! It does no one any harm to
have to hook the public. All the great men have done it. You're too
squeamish, Master Dick!'

Watson went on painting in silence, his lips working. Presently
Cuningham caught--half lost in the beard--'There's a public of to-day,