“Every time you see it you will think of us,” and he turned on his heel suddenly, fearing to lose Harding, whom he found shaking hands with one of the dealers, a man of huge girth—­“like a waggoner,” Owen said, checking a reproof, but he could not help wishing that Harding would not shake hands with such people, at all events when he was with him.

“These are the Chadwells, whom—­” (Harding whispered a celebrated name) “used to call the most gentlemanly picture-dealers in Bond-street.”  Harding spoke to them, Owen standing apart absorbed in His grief, until the word “Asher” caught his ear.

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Of you, of Sir Owen Asher.”  And Harding followed Owen, intensely annoyed.

“Not even to a gentlemanly picture-dealer should you—­”

“You are entirely wrong; I said ‘Sir Owen Asher.’”

“Very strange you should say ‘Sir Owen Asher’; why didn’t you say Sir Owen?”

Harding did not answer, being uncertain if it would not be better to drop Asher’s acquaintance.  But they had known each other always.  It would be difficult.

“The sale is about to begin,” Asher said, and Harding sat down angry with Asher and interested in the auctioneer’s face, created, Harding thought, for the job... “looking exactly like a Roman bust.  Lofty brow, tight lips, vigilant eyes, voice like a bell....  That damned fellow Asher!  What the hell did he mean—­”

The auctioneer sat at a high desk, high as any pulpit, and in the benches the congregation crowded—­every shade of nondescript, the waste ground one meets in a city:  poor Jews and dealers from the outlying streets, with here and there a possible artist or journalist.  As the pictures were sold the prices they fetched were marked in the catalogues, and Harding wondered why.

Around the room were men and women of all classes; a good many of Sir Owen’s “set” had come—­“Society being well represented that day,” as the newspapers would put it.  All the same, the pictures were not selling well, not nearly so well as Owen and Harding anticipated.  Harding was glad of this, for his heart was set on a certain drawing by Boucher.

“I would sooner you had it, Harding, than anybody else.  It would be unendurable if one of those picture-dealers should get it; they’d come round to my house trying to sell it to me again, whereas in your rooms—­”

“Yes,” said Harding, “it will be an excuse to come to see me.  Well, if I can possibly afford it—­”

“Of course you can afford it; I paid eighty-seven pounds for it years ago; it won’t go to more than a hundred.  I’d really like you to have it.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake don’t talk so loud, somebody will hear you.”

The pictures went by—­portraits of fair ladies and ancient admirals, landscapes, underwoods and deserts, flower and battle pieces, pathetic scenes and gallantries.  There was a time when every one of these pictures was the hope and delight of a human being, now they went by interesting nobody....