without leaving himself a loophole, in case he didn't like it.

'He will like it,' said Fenwick. 'It's just the kind of thing people
want.'

Watson said nothing, but smoked with energy. Fenwick went on talking,
letting it be clearly understood that he personally thought the
picture of no account, but that he knew very well that it was of a
kind to catch buyers. In a few minutes Watson resented his attitude
as offensive; he fell into a cold silence; Fenwick's half-concealed
contempt threw him fiercely on his friend's side.

'Well, I've done the trick!' said Cuningham, coming out jauntily, his
hands in his trousers pockets; then, with a jerk of the head towards
the studio, and a lowered voice, 'He's writing the cheque.'

'How much?' said Watson, without turning his head. Fenwick thought it
decent to walk away, but he could not prevent himself from listening.
It seemed to him that he heard the words 'Two hundred and fifty,' but
he could not be sure. What a price!--for such a thing. His own blood
ran warm and quick.

As he stood at the further end of the little terrace ruminating,
Cuningham touched him on the shoulder.

'I say, have you got anything to show upstairs?'

Fenwick turned to see in the sparkling eyes and confident bearing of
the Scotchman, success writ large, expressing itself in an impulse of
generosity.