money by what, for me, was good work, and preferred to starve whilst
I turned out pretentious stuff that was worth nothing from my point
of view?"

"I shouldn't wonder if you're right," said Warburton reflectively.
"In any case, I know as much about art as I do about the
differential calculus. To make money is a good and joyful thing as
long as one. doesn't bleed the poor. So go ahead, my son, and luck
be with you!"

"I can't find my model yet for the Slummer's head. It mustn't be too
like the 'Sanctuary' girl, but at the same time it must be a popular
type of beauty. I've been haunting refreshment bars and florists'
shops; lots of good material, but never _quite_ the thing. There's a
damsel at the Crystal Palace--but this doesn't interest you, you
old misogynist."

"Old what?" exclaimed Warburton, with an air of genuine surprise.

"Have I got the word wrong? I'm not much of a classic--"

"The word's all right. But that's your idea of me, is it?"

The artist stood and gazed at his friend with an odd expression, as
if a joke had been arrested on his lips by graver thought.

"Isn't it true?"

"Perhaps it is; yes, yes, I daresay."