And with a frigid touch of the hand, Mrs. Morrison departed.  She looked again at her husband as she closed the door—­a sombre, shrinking look.

Morrison avoided it.  He was pacing up and down in high spirits.  When he and Fenwick were left alone, he went up to the painter and laid an arm across his shoulders.

‘Well!—­how’s the money holding out?’

‘I’ve got scarcely any left,’ said the painter, instinctively moving away.  It might have been seen that he felt himself dependent, and hated to feel it.

‘Any more commissions?’

’I’ve painted a child up in Grasmere, and a farmer’s wife just married.  And Satterthwaite, the butcher, says he’ll give me a commission soon.  And there’s a clergyman, up Easedale way, wants me to paint his son.’

‘Well; and what do you get for these things?’

‘Three pounds—­sometimes five,’ said the young man, reluctantly.

‘A little more than a photograph.’

’Yes.  They say if I won’t be reasonable there’s plenty as’ll take their pictures, and they can’t throw away money.’

’H’m!  Well, at this rate, Fenwick, you’re not exactly galloping into a fortune.  And your father?’

Fenwick made a bitter gesture, as much as to say, ’What’s the good of discussing that?’

’H’m!—­Well, now, Fenwick, what are your plans?  Can you live on what you make?’

‘No,’ said the other, abruptly.  ‘I’m getting into debt.’

’That’s bad.  But what’s your own idea?  You must have some notion of a way out.’

‘If I could get to London,’ said the other, in a low, dragging voice, ‘I’d soon find a way out.’

‘And what prevents you?’

’Well, it’s simple enough.  You don’t really, sir, need to ask.  I’ve no money—­and I’ve a wife and child.’

Fenwick’s tone was marked by an evident ill-humour.  He had thrown back his handsome head, and his eyes sparkled.  It was plain that Mr. Morrison’s catechising manner had jarred upon a pride that was all on edge—­wounded by poverty and ill-success.

’Yes—­that was an imprudent match of yours, my young man!  However—­however—­’

Mr. Morrison walked up and down ruminating.  His long, thin hands were clasped before him.  His head hung in meditation.  And every now and then he looked towards the newspaper he had thrown down.  At last he again approached the artist.

’Upon my word, Fenwick, I’ve a mind to do something for you—­I have indeed.  I believe you’d justify it—­I do!  And I’ve always had a soft heart for artists.  You look at the things in this room’—­he waved his hand towards the walls, which were covered with water-colour drawings—­’I’ve known most of the men who painted them, and I’ve assisted a very great many of them.  Those pictures—­most of them—­represent loans, sir!—­loans at times of difficulty, which I was proud to make’—­Mr. Morrison struck his hand on the table—­’yes, proud—­because I believed in the genius of the men to whom I made them.  I said, “I’ll take a picture”—­and they had the money—­and the money saved their furniture—­and their homes—­and their wives and children.  Well, I’m glad and proud to have done it, Fenwick!—­you mark my words.’