, and sharp, small features.
A pleasant, serviceable ability was stamped on Cuningham's whole
aspect; while Watson's large, lounging way, and dishevelled or
romantic good looks suggested yet another perennial type--the dreamer
entangled in the prose of life.

He looked at the picture which Cuningham turned towards him--his hands
thrust into the vast pockets of his holland coat. It was a piece of
charming _genre_--a crowded scene in Rotten Row, called 'Waiting for
the Queen,' painted with knowledge and grace; owing more to Wilkie
than to Frith, and something to influences more modern than either;
a picture belonging to a familiar English tradition, and worthily
representing it.

'Yes--you've got it!' he said, at last, in a voice rather colourless
and forced. Then he made one or two technical comments, to which
the other listened with something that was partly indulgence, partly
deference; adding, finally, as he moved away, 'And it'll sell, of
course--like hot potatoes!'

'Well, I hope so,' said Philip, beginning to put away his brushes and
tubes with what seemed to be a characteristic orderliness--'or I shall
be in Queer Street. But I think Lord Findon wants it. I shouldn't
wonder if he turned up this afternoon!'

'Ah?' Watson raised his great shoulders with a gesture which might
have been sarcastic, but was perhaps more than anything else languid
and weary. He returned to his own picture, looking at it with a
painful intensity.

'Nobody will ever want to buy that!' he said, quietly.

Cuningham stood beside him, embarrassed.

'It's full of fine things,' he said, after a moment. 'But--'

'You wish I wouldn't paint such damned depressing subjects?'

'I wish you'd sometimes condescend to think of the public, old
fellow!'

'That--_never_!' said the other, under his breath. 'Starve--and please
yourself! But I shan't starve--you forget that.'

'Worse luck!' laughed Cuningham. 'I believe Providence ordained the
British Philistine for our good--drat him! It does no one any harm to
have to hook the public. All the great men have done it. You're too
squeamish, Master Dick!'

Watson went on painting in silence, his lips working. Presently
Cuningham caught--half lost in the beard--'There's a public of to-day,
though--and a public of to-morrow!'

'Oh, all right,' said Philip. 'So long as you take a public of some
sort into consideration! I like your jester.'

He bent forward to look into the front line of the large