He paused, his eyes on the artist, his attitude grasping, as it were, at the other’s approval—­hungry for it.  Fenwick said nothing.  He stood in the shadow of a curtain, and the sarcasm his lip could not restrain escaped the notice of his companion.  ’And so, you see, I’m only following out an old custom when I say, I believe in you, Fenwick!—­I believe in your abilities—­I’m sorry for your necessities—­and I’ll come to your assistance.  Now, how much would take you to London and keep you there for six months, till you’ve made a few friends and done some work?’

‘A hundred pounds,’ said the painter, breathing hard.

‘A hundred pounds.  And what about the wife?’

’Her father very likely would give her shelter, and the child.  And of course I should leave her provided.’

’Well, and what about my security?  How, John, in plain words, do you propose to repay me?’

Mr. Morrison spoke with extreme mildness.  His blue eyes, whereof the whites were visible all round the pupils, shone benevolently on the artist—­his mouth was all sensibility.  Whereas, for a moment, there had been something of the hawk in his attitude and expression, he was now the dove—­painfully obliged to pay a passing attention to business.

Fenwick hesitated.

‘You mentioned six guineas, I think, for this portrait?’ He nodded towards the canvas, on which he had been at work.

’I did.  It is unfortunate, of course, that Bella dislikes it so.  I shan’t be able to hang it.  Never mind.  A bargain’s a bargain.’

The young man drew himself up proudly.

’It is so, Mr. Morrison.  And you wished me to paint your portrait, I think, and Mrs. Morrison’s.’  The elder man made a sign of assent.  ’Well, I could run up to your place—­to Bartonbury—­and paint those in the winter, when I come to see my wife.  As to the rest—­I’ll repay you within the year—­unless—­well, unless I go utterly to grief, which of course I may.’

’Wait here a moment.  I’ll fetch you the money.  Better not promise to repay me in cash.  It’ll be a millstone round your neck.  I’ll take it in pictures.’

’Very well; then I’ll either paint you an original finished picture—­historical or romantic subject—­medium size, by the end of the year, or make you copies—­you said you wanted two or three—­one large or two small, from anything you like in the National Gallery.’

Morrison laughed good-temperedly.  He touched a copy of The Art Journal lying on the table.

’There’s an article here about that German painter—­Lenbach—­whom they crack up so nowadays.  When he was a young man, Baron Schack, it appears, paid him one hundred pounds a year, for all his time, as a copyist in Italy and Spain.’  He spoke very delicately, mincing his words a little.

Fenwick’s colour rose suddenly.  Morrison was not looking at him, or he would have seen a pair of angry eyes.