"Look here, Bullen," he said, twisting the easel round a little,
"the picture is practically finished. A few more strokes--I shall do
them at home--and it is ready for the Academy. How do you like it?"

Mr. Bullen bent down his burly form and honoured the little canvas
with a respectful scrutiny.

"That is Trinidad Wharf, sir, I suppose?" he suggested, pointing
with a huge forefinger at the background a little uncertainly.

"That is Trinidad Wharf, Bullen, certainly! And those masts are
from the ships in the Commercial Docks. But the river, the
atmosphere--that's the point--how do they strike you?"

"Well, it's beautiful, sir," remarked Bullen cordially; "painted
like the life, you may say. But isn't it just a little smudgy, sir?"

"That's the beauty of it, Bullen. It's impressionism, you
Philistine!--a sort of modified impressionism, you know, to suit the
hangers. 'Gad, Bullen, you ought to be a hanger yourself! Bullen,
my dear man, if it wasn't that you _do_ know how to paint a ship's
side, I would even go so far as to say that you have all the
qualifications of an Academician."

"Ah, if it comes to that, Mr. Lightmark, I dare say I could put them
up to some dodges. I am a judge of 'composition.'"

"Composition? The devil you are! Ah, you mean that infernal compound
which they cover ships' bottoms with? What an atrocious pun!" The
man looked puzzled. "Bullen, R.A., great at composition; it sounds