to many goals; but with him, at that time, the omens were of the best.  His pictures were always among the events of the spring exhibitions; he had gathered round him a group of enthusiastic pupils who worked in the studio of the new house; and he had already received a good many honours at the hands of foreign juries.  He was known to be on the threshold of the Academy, and to be making, besides, a good deal of money.  ‘Society’ had first admitted him as the protege of Lord Findon and the friend of Madame de Pastourelles, and was now ready to amuse itself with him, independently, as a genius and an ‘eccentric.’  He had many enemies; but so have all ‘fighters.’  The critics spoke severely of certain radical defects in his work, due to insufficiency of early training; defects which time might correct—­or stereotype.  But the critics ‘must be talking’; and the public, under the spell of a new and daring talent, appeared to take no notice.

As these recollections passed through Watson’s mind, another expression showed itself in the hollow-cheeked, massive face.  It was the look of the visionary who sees in events the strange verification of obscure instincts and divinations in which he himself perhaps has only half-believed.  He and Fenwick had been friends now—­in some respects, close friends—­for a good many years.  Of late, they had met rarely, and neither of the men was a good correspondent.  But the friendship, the strong sense of congruity and liking, persisted.  It had sprung, originally—­unexpectedly enough—­from that loan made to Fenwick in his days of stress and poverty; and there were many who prophesied that it would come to an end with Fenwick’s success.  Watson had no interest in and small tolerance for the prosperous.  His connexion with Cuningham, in spite of occasional letters, had dropped long ago, ever since that clever Scotch painter had shown himself finally possessed of the usual Scotch power to capture London and a competence.  But his liking for Fenwick had never wavered through all the blare of Fenwick’s success.

Was it that the older man with his melancholy Celtic instinct had divined from the first that he and Fenwick were in truth of the same race—­the race of the [Greek:  dusammoroi]—­the ill-fated—­those for whom happiness is not written in the stars?

He sat staring at his companion, his eyes dreamily intent, taking note of the restless depression of the man before him, and of the disagreeable facts which emerged from his talk—­declining reputation, money difficulties, and—­last and most serious—­a new doubt of himself and his powers, which Watson never remembered to have noticed in him before.

‘But you must have made a great deal of money!’ he said to him once, interrupting him.

Fenwick turned away uneasily.

’So I did.  But there was the new house and studio.  I have been trying to sell the house.  But it’s a white elephant.’