Tom grinned.

“You painters are all rogues who would bleed every gentleman you see,” he said.

“We are poor fellows who find it hard to sell our wares,” the artist answered. “’Tis only such as the great Mr. Kneller who do not starve, and lie abed because their shirts and breeches are in pawn.  When a man has a picture like to take the fancy of every young nobleman in town, he may well ask its value.”

“Let us see it,” cried Tom.  “To a gentleman it may seem a daub.”

The man looked at him slyly.

“’Twould pay me to keep it hid here and exhibit it for a fee,” he said.  “The gentlemen who were here yesterday will tell others, and they will come and ask to look at it, and then—­”

“Show it to us, sir,” said Roxholm, breaking in suddenly in his deeper voice and taking a step forward.

He had stood somewhat behind, not being at first in the mood to take part in the conversation, having no liking for the situation.  That a young lady’s portrait should be stolen from her, so to speak, and put on sale by a drunken painter without her knowledge, annoyed him—­and the man’s leering hint of its future exhibition roused his blood.

“Show it to us, sir,” he said, and in his voice there was that suggestion of command which is often in the voice of a man who has had soldiers under him.

The but half-sober limner being addressed by him for the first time, and for the first time looking at him directly, gave way to a slight hiccoughing start and strove to stand more steady.  ’Twas no gay youthful rake who stood before him, but plainly a great gentleman, and most amazing tall and stately.  ’Twas not a boy come to look at a peep-show, but might be a possible patron.

“Yes, your lordship,” he stammered, bowing shakily, “I—­I will bring it forth.  Your lordship will find the young lady a wonder.”  He went swaying across the room, and opened a cupboard in the wall.  The canvas stood propped up within, and he took it out and brought it back to them—­keeping its face turned away.

“Let me set it in as good a light as the poor place can give,” he said, and dragged forth the rickety-legged chair that he might prop it against its back, for the moment looking less drunk and less a vagabond in his eagerness to do his work justice; there lurking somewhere, perhaps, in his besotted being, that love which the artist soul feels for the labour of its dreams.

“In sooth, my lord, ’tis a thing which should have been better done,” he said.  “I could have done the young lady’s loveliness more justice, had I but had the time.  First I saw her for scarce more than a moment, and her face so haunted me that I sketched it for my own pleasure—­and then I hung about her father’s park for days, until by great fortune I came upon her one morning standing under a tree, her dogs at her feet, and she lost in thought—­and with such eyes gazing before her—!  I stood behind a tree and did my best, trembling lest she should turn.  But no man could paint her eyes, my lord,” rubbing his head ruefully; “no man could paint them.  Mr. Kneller will not—­when she weds a Duke and comes to queen it at the Court.”