One afternoon Peter found David in his attic going through his dead
brother's papers and smoking a pipe. Peter knew his man too well to
attempt direct interrogation. He felt his way by inquiries as to the
general situation of Art, and David was soon enlarging on the merits
of sundry unknown but gifted painters and craftsmen whose work he hoped
Peter might bring to the notice of his wealthy friends.

"The poor fellows are starving, Knott," he said in his leisurely way as
he raised himself painfully from his chair and walked heavily to a corner
where lay a portfolio.

Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a
heterogeneous collection of manuscripts and books; the latter were piled
up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio
upon it.

"Now, here's--a charming--etching." He had a way of saying a word or two
and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience
of a listener.

Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe.

"The man--who did that--is one of our best line engravers--his name is
Macmanus--he's dreadfully hard up--look at this."

He held another before his visitor.

"That's by Plimsoll--a silver point--isn't it a beautiful thing?"