Fenwick turned on him a face that vainly endeavoured to hide the joy of its owner.

’I shall look out, of course, first of all, for some bread-and-butter work.  I shall go to the editors of the illustrated papers and show them some things.  I shall attend some life-school in the evenings.  And the rest of the time I shall paint—­paint like Old Harry!’

The words caused a momentary wrinkling of Mr. Morrison’s brow.

’I should avoid those expressions, if I were you, Fenwick.  But paint what, my dear boy?—­paint what?’

‘Of course I have my ideas,’ said Fenwick, staring at the floor.

‘I think I have earned a right to hear them.’

’Certainly.  I propose to combine the colour and romance of the Pre-Raphaelites with the truth and drawing of the French school,’ said the young man, suddenly looking up.

Surprise betrayed his companion into a broad grin.

‘Upon my word, Fenwick, you won’t fail for lack of ambition!’

The young man reddened, then quietly nodded.

’No one gets on without ambition.  My ideas have been pretty clear for a long time.  The English Romantic school have no more future, unless they absorb French drawing and French technique.  When they have done that, they will do the finest work in the world.’

Morrison’s astonishment increased.  The decision and self-confidence with which Fenwick spoke had never yet shown themselves so plainly in the harassed and humbly born painter of Miss Bella’s portrait.

‘And you intend to do the finest work in the world?’ said the patron, in a voice of banter.

Fenwick hesitated.

‘I shall do good work,’ he said, doggedly, after a pause.  Then, suddenly raising his head, he added, ’And if I weren’t sure of it, I’d never let you lend me money.’

Morrison laughed.

‘That’s all right.—­And now what will Mrs. Fenwick say to us?’

Fenwick turned away.  He repossessed himself of the envelope, and buttoned his coat over it, before he replied.

’I shall, of course, consult her immediately.  What shall I do with this picture?’ He pointed to the portrait on the easel.

‘Take it home with you, and see if you can’t beautify it a little,’ said Morrison, in a tone of good-humour.  ’You’ve got a lot of worldly wisdom to learn yet, my dear Fenwick.  The women must be flattered.’

Fenwick repeated that he was sorry if Miss Bella was disappointed, but the tone was no less perfunctory than before.  After stooping and looking sharply for a moment into the picture—­which was a strong, ugly thing, with some passages of remarkable technique—­he put it aside, saving that he would send for it in the evening.  Then, having packed up and shouldered the rest of his painter’s gear, he stood ready to depart.

‘I’m awfully obliged to you!’ he said, holding out his hand.

Morrison looked at the handsome young fellow, the vivacity of the eyes, the slight agitation of the lip.