"Look here, joking apart," said the artist, putting in the waves of
the thick black hair, "are you really going to be dumped down in
London to seek your fortune? Don't you know anybody there?"

"No," said Paul.

"How are you going to live?"

Paul dived a hand into his breeches pocket and jingled coins. "I've
got th' brass," said he.

"How much?"

"Three shillings and sevenpence-ha'penny," said Paul, with an
opulent air. "And yo'r shilling will make it four and sevenpence-
ha'penny."

"Good God!" said-the young man. He went on drawing for some time in
silence. Then he said: "My brother is a painter--rather a swell--
a Royal Academician. He would love to paint you. So would other
fellows. You could easily earn your living as a model--doing as a
business, you know, what you're doing now for fun, more or less."

"How much could I earn?"

"It all depends. Say a pound to thirty shillings a week."

Paul gasped and sat paralyzed. Artist, dusty road, gaudy van,
distant cornfields and uplands were blotted from his senses. The
cool waves of Pactolus lapped his feet.