f to death," he said, with his gentle
and insinuating air.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Walkingshaw, and surveyed the artist with
increased respect.

"Hillary is inclined to talk--" began Lucas, but was silenced by a
ferocious stamp of Frank's boot.

"Hush, you idiot!" he murmured.

"No, Lucas," said his friend readily, "I am not inclined to talk as a
rule, but I cannot bear to hear you maligned. I never saw a man work as
you do."

"Is that your candid opinion of our friend?" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw with
a pleasant air.

"It feebly endeavors to express my opinion," replied the engaging young
man. "He paints on an average one picture per six hours of daylight; and
the most astounding thing sir, is their consistently high merit."

Lucas looked decidedly uncomfortable.

"I don't sell them, unfortunately," he blurted out.

The W.S. turned grave.

"None of them?" he inquired.

"I haven't sold much lately."

"How's that?"

"The public is not yet educated up to him," said Hillary. "But between
ourselves, Mr. Walkingshaw, if I had a thousand pounds at this moment, I
should put it all in Vernons; they'll be worth five thousand in ten
years' time at a modest estimate--a very modest estimate."

"You are a critic?" inquired the W.S.

"I am considered so," answered the youth modestly.

Mr. Walkingshaw turned to the embarrassed artist.

"At the same time, I gather that whatever your merits, this is one of
your lean years, eh?"

"Devilish," said Lucas.

"That must be discouraging?"

"It might be if I let it."

"That is a damned good answer, Vernon," said Mr. Walkingshaw
emphatically.

Before the three young men had recovered from the sympathetic surprise
which this reply occasioned, he had planted himself in front of the
unfinished picture on the easel.

"What's this you're doing? A wood? Ah, yes, I recognize the trees. Very
lifelike indeed--most creditable. What's the price of it, if I may ask?"

"What I can get," replied Lucas, with a reminiscence of his afternoon's
despair.

"Still the same unpractical fellow!" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw. "You're not
very strong on figures, eh?"

"I don't meet many," said the artist candidly.

"Well," suggested his visitor kindly, "what about fifty pounds?"

"I'd think myself devilish lucky."

"May I have it at that?"

"_You?_"

"It isn't booked already, I trust?"

"N--no."

"That's a bargain, then?"

Lucas's eyes were again fixed in a strange stare. Then a q