‘Have you been attending all the summer?’

’Pretty well.  There were about half a dozen fellows left in August.  We clubbed together to keep the model going.’

‘I don’t remember you in the Academy.’

’No.  I come from the North.  I’ve painted a lot already—­I couldn’t be bothered with the Academy!’

Watson turned and looked at the figure in the doorway.

‘Won’t you come in and sit down?’

The young man hesitated.  Then something in his look kindled as it fell on Watson’s superb head, with its strong, tossed locks of ebon-black hair touched with grey, the penthouse brows, and the blue eyes beneath with their tragic force of expression.

Fenwick came in and shut the door.  Cuningham pushed him a chair, and Watson offered him a cigarette, which he somewhat doubtfully accepted.  His two hosts—­men of the educated middle-class—­divined at once that he was self-taught, and risen from the ranks.  Both Cuningham and Watson were shabbily dressed; but it was an artistic and metropolitan shabbiness.  Fenwick’s country clothes were clumsy and unbecoming; and his manner seemed to fit him as awkwardly as his coat.  The sympathy of both the older artists did but go out to him the more readily.

Cuningham continued the conversation, while Watson, still painting, occasionally intervened.

They discussed the personnel of the life-school Fenwick was attending, the opening of a new atelier in North London by a well-known Academician, the successes at the current ‘Academy,’ the fame of certain leading artists.  At least Cuningham talked; Fenwick’s contributions were mostly monosyllabic; he seemed to be feeling his way.

Suddenly, by a change of attitude on the painter’s part, the picture on which Dick Watson was engaged became visible to Fenwick.  He walked eagerly up to it.

’I say!’—­his face flushed with admiration.  ‘That figure’s wonderful.’  He pointed to the terror-stricken culprit.  ’But that horse there—­you don’t mind, do you?—­that horse is wrong!’

’I know he is!  I’ve worked at him till I’m sick.  Can’t work at him any more!’

‘It should be like this.’

He took out a sketch-book from his pocket, caught up a piece of charcoal and rapidly sketched the horse in the attitude required.  Then he handed the book to Watson, who looked first at the sketch, and then at some of the neighbouring pages, which were covered with studies of horses observed mostly on the day of some trade-union procession, when mounted police were keeping the road.

Watson was silent a moment, then, walking up to his picture, he took his palette-knife and scraped out the whole passage.  ‘I see!’ he said, and, laying down the knife, he threw himself into a chair, flushed and discomposed.

‘Oh, you’ll soon put it right!’ said Fenwick, encouragingly.

Watson winced—­then nodded.

‘May I see that book?’ He held out his hand, and Fenwick yielded it.