Watson and Cuningham turned it over together.  The ‘notes,’ of which it was full, showed great brilliancy and facility, an accurate eye, and a very practised hand.  They were the notes of a countryman artist newly come to London.  The sights, and tones, and distances of London streets—­the human beings, the vehicles, the horses—­were all freshly seen, as though under a glamour.  Cuningham examined them with care.

‘Is this the sort of thing you’re going to do?’ he said, looking up, and involuntarily his eye glanced towards his own picture on the distant easel.

Fenwick smiled.

’That’s only for practice.  I want to do big things—­romantic things—­if I get the chance.’

‘What a delightful subject!’ said Cuningham, stooping suddenly over the book.

Fenwick started, made a half-movement as though to reclaim his property, and then withdrew his hand.  Cuningham was looking at a charcoal study of a cottage interior.  The round table of rude black oak was set for a meal, and a young woman was feeding a child in a pinafore who sat in a high-chair.  The sketch might have been a mere piece of domestic prettiness; but the handling of it was so strong and free that it became a significant, typical thing.  It breathed the North, a life rustic and withdrawn—­the sweetness of home and motherhood.

‘Are you going to make a picture of that?’ said Watson, putting on his spectacles, and peering into it.  ‘You’d better.’

Fenwick replied that he might some day, but had too many things on hand to think of it yet a while.  Then with no explanation and a rather hasty hand he turned the page.  Cuningham looked at him curiously.

They were still busy with the sketch-book when a voice was heard on the stairs outside.

‘Lord Findon,’ said Cunningham.

He coloured a little, ran to his picture, arranged it in the best light, and removed a small fly which had stuck to one corner.

‘Shall I go?’ said Fenwick.

He too had been clearly fluttered by the name, which was that of one of the best-known buyers of the day.

Watson in reply beckoned him on to the leads, upon which the Georgian bow-window at the end of the room opened.  They found themselves on a railed terrace looking to right and left on a row of gardens, each glorified by one of the plane-trees which even still make the charm of Bloomsbury.

Watson hung over the rail, smoking.  He explained that Lord Findon had come to see Cuningham’s picture, which he had commissioned, but not without leaving himself a loophole, in case he didn’t like it.

‘He will like it,’ said Fenwick.  ’It’s just the kind of thing people want.’

Watson said nothing, but smoked with energy.  Fenwick went on talking, letting it be clearly understood that he personally thought the picture of no account, but that he knew very well that it was of a kind to catch buyers.  In a few minutes Watson resented his attitude as offensive; he fell into a cold silence; Fenwick’s half-concealed contempt threw him fiercely on his friend’s side.