The workman puffed gravely at his pipe.

"You are no great admirer of wealth, then?" he said.

"Not I. I should not care to be a penny richer than I am. Of course I
should like to sell my pictures. One must make a living. But beyond
that I ask nothing. I dare say that I, a poor artist, or you, a man who
work for your bread, have more happiness out of life than the owner of
that great palace,"

"Indeed, I think that it is more than likely," the other answered, in a
much more conciliatory voice.

"Art," said Robert, warming to the subject, "is her own reward. What
mere bodily indulgence is there which money could buy which can give
that deep thrill of satisfaction which comes on the man who has
conceived something new, something beautiful, and the daily delight as
he sees it grow under his hand, until it stands before him a completed
whole? With my art and without wealth I am happy. Without my art I
should have a void which no money could fill. But I really don't know
why I should say all this to you."

The workman had stopped, and was staring at him earnestly with a look of
the deepest interest upon his smoke-darkened features.

"I am very glad to hear what you say," said he. "It is a pleasure to
know that the worship of gold is not quite universal, and that there are
at least some who can rise above it. Would you mind my shaking you by
the hand?"