smile did on many people,
however innocent it might be of satiric intention, of infusing his
next remarks with the accent of apology.

"You see, Rainham, one has to think of what will help one on, as
well as what one likes. There is a man I have come to know lately--a
very good man too, a barrister--who is always dinning that into me.
He has introduced me to some very useful people, and is always
urging me not to commit myself. And Brodonowski's is rather
committal, you know. However, we must dine there together again one
day, soon, and then you will understand it."

"Oh, I understand it, Dick!" said Rainham. "But let me see the
picture while the light lasts."

"Oh, yes!" cried Lightmark eagerly. "We must not forget the
picture." He hoisted it up to a suitable light, and Rainham stood by
the bow-window, from which one almost obtained the point of view
which the artist had chosen, regarding it in a critical silence.

"What do you call it?" he asked at last.

"'The Gray River,'" said Lightmark; then a little impatiently: "But
how do you find it? Are you waiting for a tripod?"

"I don't think I shall tell you. By falling into personal criticism,
unless one is either dishonest or trivial, one runs the risk of
losing a friend."

"Oh, nonsense, man! It's not such a daub as that. I will risk your
candour."

Rainham shrugged his shoulder.

"If you will have it, Dick--only, don't think that I am to be coaxed
into compliments."

"_Is_ it bad?" asked Lightmark sceptically.

"On the contrary, it is surprisingly good. It's clever and pretty;
sure to be hung, sure to sell. Only you have come down a peg. The
sentiment about that river is very pretty, and that mist is
eminently pictorial; but it's not the river you would have painted
last year; and that mist--I have seen it in a good many pictures
now--is a mist that one can't quite believe in. It's the art that
pays, but it's not the art you talked at Brodonowski's last summer,
that is all."

Lightmark tugged at his moustache a little ruefully. Rainham had an
idea that his ups and downs were tremendous. His mind was a
mountainous country, and if he had elations, he had also depressions
as acute. Yet his elasticity was enormous, and he could throw off
troublesome intruders, in the shape of memories or regrets, with the
ease of a slow-worm casting its skin. And so now his confidence was
only shaken for a moment, and he was able to reply gaily to
Rainham's last thrust: