motherhood.

'Are you going to make a picture of that?' said Watson, putting on his
spectacles, and peering into it. 'You'd better.'

Fenwick replied that he might some day, but had too many things on
hand to think of it yet a while. Then with no explanation and a rather
hasty hand he turned the page. Cuningham looked at him curiously.

They were still busy with the sketch-book when a voice was heard on
the stairs outside.

'Lord Findon,' said Cunningham.

He coloured a little, ran to his picture, arranged it in the best
light, and removed a small fly which had stuck to one corner.

'Shall I go?' said Fenwick.

He too had been clearly fluttered by the name, which was that of one
of the best-known buyers of the day.

Watson in reply beckoned him on to the leads, upon which the Georgian
bow-window at the end of the room opened. They found themselves on
a railed terrace looking to right and left on a row of gardens, each
glorified by one of the plane-trees which even still make the charm of
Bloomsbury.

Watson hung over the rail, smoking. He explained that Lord Findon had
come to see Cuningham's picture, which he had commissioned, but not