yndham. He saw the old man's eyes fixed on him
gravely. "You see, I'm not one of your successful artists, and the years
have a way of passing on." He struggled with the fire, making the sticks
blaze, then piled up the coals unsparingly. Mr. Robinson was the only
person in the world to whom he had ever admitted failure, but somehow it
did not seem to matter.

The old man gazed at him in frank astonishment. "Why, you are in the
prime of early manhood!" he exclaimed. "Really it is most extraordinary
to hear a splendid young man like you complain of the years passing!"

"I'm thirty-three," volunteered Wyndham. "And an unlucky devil of
thirty-three, who has as much trouble in getting rid of his work as I,
feels old enough in all conscience."

"But you artists have to expect these adverse experiences," said Mr.
Robinson. "Art of course isn't like other things--it isn't exactly a
business or profession in the ordinary sense, and so long as a man has
the gift, he ought not to get disheartened. In our business world, of
course, pounds, shillings and pence are everything, but in the world of
art it wouldn't do to set up a standard of that kind."

Such sentiments on the part of a Philistine who came home every evening
from the City at six o'clock struck Wyndham speechless.

"The struggle of genius is proverbial," Mr. Robinson added, before the
younger man could find his tongue; "and genius wouldn't be genius
without it."

"Ah, if I were only a genius!" said Wyndham, laughing.

"I am sure you are a genius," said the old man very gravely. "I have
often thought what a clever face yours was. At home we have often spoken
of you."

"I suppose then I must be a conspicuous figure in the road. I had no
idea of it!" Wyndham laughed again.

"You've been in the neighbourhood some years now," said Mr. Robinson
half apologetically; "and neighbours naturally notice one another.
Besides, if I may say so, you are quite unlike the ordinary run of
people. You are not the sort of man one sees in the City."

"You interest me. In what way do I differ from others?"

"You have the stamp of belonging to leisured people; it is plain from
your walk and bearing, from your voice and manner of speech. And then
there is something about your clothes even--I don't quite know what."
The old man's eyes rested on him with a sort of approval and
satisfaction.

Wyndham was amused. "You are really an original character," he
exclaimed. "I like you."

Mr