Withal he was acutely dejected as he left his office to go to the club.

II

Sir Isaac was sitting quite alone in the large smoking-room of the Artists in Albemarle Street—­a beautiful apartment terribly disfigured by its pictures, which had been procured from fashionable members in the fashionable taste of twenty years earlier, and were crying aloud for some one brave enough to put them out of their misery.  No interpretation of the word ‘artist’ could by any ingenuity be stretched to include Sir Isaac.  Nevertheless he belonged to the club, and so did a number of other men in like case.  The difference between Sir Isaac and the rest was that Sir Isaac did actually buy pictures, though seldom from fashionable painters.

He was a personage of about forty-five years, with a rather prominent belly, but not otherwise stout; a dark man; plenty of stiff black hair (except for one small central bald patch); a rank moustache, and a clean-shaven chin apparently woaded in the manner of the ancient Britons; elegantly and yet severely dressed—­braided morning-coat, striped trousers, small, skin-fitting boots, a black flowered-silk necktie.  As soon as you drew near him you became aware of his respiratory processes; you were bound to notice continually that without ceasing he carried on the elemental business of existence.  Hair sprouted from his nose, and the nose was enormous; it led at a pronounced slope to his high forehead, which went on upwards at exactly the same angle and was lost in his hair.  If the chin had weakly receded, as it often does in this type, Sir Isaac would have had a face like a spear-head, like a ram of which the sharp point was the top of his nose; but Sir Isaac’s chin was square, and the wall of it perpendicular.

His expression was usually inquisitive, dissatisfied, and disdainful—­the effect being produced by a slight lifting of the back of the nostrils and a slight tipping forward of the whole head.  His tone, however, often by its bluff good-humour, contradicted the expression.  He had in an extreme degree the appearance of a Jew, and he had the names of a Jew; and most people said he was a Jew.  But he himself seriously denied it.  He asserted that he came of a Welsh Nonconformist family, addicted to christening its infants out of the Bible, and could prove his descent for generations—­not that he minded being taken for a Jew (he would add), was indeed rather flattered thereby, but he simply was not a Jew.  At any rate he was Welsh.  A journalist had described him in a phrase:  “All the time he’s talking to you in English you feel he’s thinking something different in Welsh.”  He was an exceedingly rich industrial, and had made his money by organization; he seemed always to have leisure.

“Here,” he curtly advised George, producing a magnificent Partaga, similar to the one he was himself smoking, “you’d better have this.”