of the French school,' said
the young man, suddenly looking up.

Surprise betrayed his companion into a broad grin.

'Upon my word, Fenwick, you won't fail for lack of ambition!'

The young man reddened, then quietly nodded.

'No one gets on without ambition. My ideas have been pretty clear for
a long time. The English Romantic school have no more future, unless
they absorb French drawing and French technique. When they have done
that, they will do the finest work in the world.'

Morrison's astonishment increased. The decision and self-confidence
with which Fenwick spoke had never yet shown themselves so plainly in
the harassed and humbly born painter of Miss Bella's portrait.

'And you intend to do the finest work in the world?' said the patron,
in a voice of banter.

Fenwick hesitated.

'I shall do good work,' he said, doggedly, after a pause. Then,
suddenly raising his head, he added, 'And if I weren't sure of it, I'd
never let you lend me money.'

Morrison laughed.

'That's all right.--And now what will Mrs. Fenwick say to us?'

Fenwick turned away. He repossessed himself of the envelope, and
buttoned his coat over it, before he replied.

'I shall, of course, consult her immediately. What shall I do with
this picture?' He pointed to the portrait on the easel.

'Take it home with you, and see if you can't beautify it a little,'
said Morrison, in a tone of good-humour. 'You've got a lot of worldly
wisdom to learn yet, my dear Fenwick. The women _must_ be flattered.'

Fenwick repeated that he was sorry if Miss Bella was disappointed,
but the tone was no less perfunctory than before. After stooping and
looking sharply for a moment into the picture--which was a strong,
ugly thing, with some passages of remarkable technique--he put it
aside, saving that he would send for it in the evening. Then, having
packed up and shouldered the rest of his painter's gear, he stood
ready to depart.

'I'm awfully obliged to you!' he said, holding out his hand.

Morrison looked at the handsome young fellow, the vivacity of the
eyes, the slight agitation of the lip.

'Don't mention it,' he said, with redoubled urbanity. 'It's my
way--only my way! When'll you be off?'

'Probably next week. I'll come and say good-bye.'

'I _must_ have a year! But Phoebe will take it hard.' John Fenwick had
paused on his way home, and was leaning over a gate beside a stream,
now thinking anxiously of his domestic affairs, and now stee