d the Radical, progressive councillor of Hickney
Heath, the Free Zionist dissenter (not even Congregationalist or
Baptist or Wesleyan, or any powerfully organized Non-conformist whose
conscience archbishops consult with astute patronage), the purveyor of
fried fish, the man of crude, uncultivated taste, there should have
been a gulf fixed as wide as the Pacific Ocean. As a matter of fact,
whatever gulf lay between them was narrow enough to be bridged
comfortably over by mutual esteem. Paul took to visiting Mr. Finn.
Accustomed to the somewhat tired or conventional creeds of his
political world, he found refreshment in the man's intense faith. He
also found pathetic attraction in the man's efforts towards
self-expression. Mr. Finn, who lived a life of great
loneliness--scarcely a soul, said Jane, crossed his threshold from
month's end to month's end--seemed delighted to have a sympathetic
visitor to whom he could display his painted treasures. When he was
among them the haunting pain vanished from his eyes, as sometimes one
has seen it vanish from those of an unhappy woman among her flowers. He
loved to take Paul through his collection and point out the beauties
and claim his admiration. He had converted a conservatory running along
one side of the house into a picture gallery, and this was filled with
his masterpieces of pictorial villainy. Here Paul was at first
astonished at recognizing replicas of pictures which hung in other
rooms. Mr. Finn explained.

"These," said he, "are the originals."

Paul pondered over the dark saying for a moment or two until he came
upon a half-finished canvas on an easel. It was the copy of a landscape
on the wall. He turned questioningly to his host. The latter smiled.

"I'm a bit of an artist myself," he said. "But as I've never had time
for lessons in painting, I teach myself by copying good pictures. It's
a Saunders"--a name unknown to Paul--"and a very good example. It's
called Noontide. The cow is particularly good, isn't it? But it's
exceedingly difficult. That fore-shortening--I can't get it quite right
yet. But I go on and on till I succeed. The only way."

Paul acquiesced and asked him where he had picked up his Saunders.
Indeed, where had he picked up all the others? Not an exhibition in
London would have admitted one of them. This "Saunders" represented a
wooden cow out of drawing lying in the shade of a conventional tree. It
was peculiarly bad.

"I bought it direct from