the artist," replied Mr. Finn. "He's an
unrecognized genius, and now he's getting old, poor fellow. Years ago
he offended the Royal Academy, and they never forgot it. He says
they've kept him under all his life. I have a great many of his
pictures." He looked admiringly at the cow for a while, and added: "I
gave him four pounds ten for this one."

Paul could not forbear saying, though his tone betrayed no irony: "A
good price."

"I think so," replied Mr. Finn. "That's what he asked. I could never
haggle with an artist. His work is of the spirit, isn't it?"

And Paul marvelled at the childlike simplicity of the man, the son of
the Sicilian woman who went about with a barrel-organ, who, starting in
the race on a level with Barney Bill, had made a fortune in the
exploitation of fried fish. To disturb his faith in the genius of
Saunders were a crime--as base a crime as proving to a child the
non-existence of fairies. For Paul saw that Silas Finn found in this
land of artistic illusion a refuge from many things; not only from the
sordid cares of a large business, but perhaps also from the fierce
intensity of his religion, from his driving and compelling deity. Here
God entered gently.

There was another reason, which Paul scarcely confessed to himself, for
the pleasure he found in the older man's company. The veil which he had
thrown so adroitly over his past history, which needed continuous
adroitness to maintain, was useless in this house. Both Barney Bill and
Jane had spoken of him freely. Silas Finn knew of Bludston, of his
modeldom, of his inglorious career on the stage. He could talk openly
once more, without the never-absent subconscious sense of reserve. He
was still, in his own, eyes, the prince out of the fairy-tale; but
Silas Finn and the two others alone of his friends shared the knowledge
of the days when he herded swine. Now a prince out of a fairy-tale who
has herded swine is a romantic figure. Paul did not doubt that he was
one. Even Jane, in spite of her direct common sense, admitted it.
Barney Bill proclaimed it openly, slapping him on the back and taking
much credit to himself for helping the prince on the way to his
kingdom. And Mr. Finn, even in the heat of political discussion or
theological asseveration, treated him with a curious and pathetic
deference.

Meanwhile Paul pursued his own career of glory. The occasional visits
to Hickney Heath were, after all, but rare, though distinct, episodes
i