"It has come out rather well, hasn't it?" said the artist,
complacently.

"It's the living image of 'im," said Barney Bill.

"He tells me he's going up to London to seek his fortune," said
Rowlatt, putting in the finishing touches.

"And his 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill, winking at Paul.

Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably. Instinct deprecated crude
revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement. He
felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence. Gutter-bred though
he was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste. Of
such a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been
guilty. Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr.
Rowlatt did not demand explanation.

"A young Japhet in search of a father. Well, I hope he'll find him.
There's nothing like romance. Without it life is flat and dead. It's
what atmosphere is to a picture."

"And onions to a stew," said Barney Bill.

"Quite right," said Rowlatt. "Paul, my boy, I think after all you'd
better stick to Mr.--?"

"Barney Bill, sir, at your service. And, if you want a comfortable
chair, or an elegant mat, or a hearth brush at a ridiculous cheap