Priam had virtually promised to deliver that picture to the picture-framer on the next day, and he had not expected to receive a penny more than twelve pounds for it.  But artists are strange organisms.

He shook his head.  Although two hundred and fifty pounds was as much as he had earned in the previous twelve months, he shook his grey head.

“No?” said Mr. Oxford kindly and respectfully, putting his hands behind his back.  “By the way,” he turned with eagerness to Priam, “I presume you have seen the portrait of Ariosto by Titian that they’ve bought for the National Gallery?  What is your opinion of it, maitre?” He stood expectant, glowing with interest.

“Except that it isn’t Ariosto, and it certainly isn’t by Titian, it’s a pretty high-class sort of thing,” said Priam.

Mr. Oxford smiled with appreciative content, nodding his head.  “I hoped you would say so,” he remarked.  And swiftly he passed on to Segantini, then to J.W.  Morrice, and then to Bonnard, demanding the maitre’s views.  In a few moments they were really discussing pictures.  And it was years since Priam had listened to the voice of informed common sense on the subject of painting.  It was years since he had heard anything but exceeding puerility concerning pictures.  He had, in fact, accustomed himself not to listen; he had excavated a passage direct from one ear to the other for such remarks.  And now he drank up the conversation of Mr. Oxford, and perceived that he had long been thirsty.  And he spoke his mind.  He grew warmer, more enthusiastic, more impassioned.  And Mr. Oxford listened with ecstasy.  Mr. Oxford had apparently a natural discretion.  He simply accepted Priam, as he stood, for a great painter.  No reference to the enigma why a great painter should be painting in an attic in Werter Road, Putney!  No inconvenient queries about the great painter’s previous history and productions.  Just the frank, full acceptance of his genius!  It was odd, but it was comfortable.

“So you won’t take two hundred and fifty?” asked Mr. Oxford, hopping back to business.

“No,” said Priam sturdily.  “The truth is,” he added, “I should rather like to keep that picture for myself.”

“Will you take five hundred, maitre?”

“Yes, I suppose I will,” and Priam sighed.  A genuine sigh!  For he would really have liked to keep the picture.  He knew he had never painted a better.

“And may I carry it away with me?” asked Mr. Oxford.

“I expect so,” said Priam.

“I wonder if I might venture to ask you to come back to town with me?” Mr. Oxford went on, in gentle deference.  “I have one or two pictures I should very much like you to see, and I fancy they might give you pleasure.  And we could talk over future business.  If possibly you could spare an hour or so.  If I might request——­”

A desire rose in Priam’s breast and fought against his timidity.  The tone in which Mr. Oxford had said “I fancy they might give you pleasure” appeared to indicate something very much out of the common.  And Priam could scarcely recollect when last his eyes had rested on a picture that was at once unfamiliar and great.