“What is your price?” said my Lord Roxholm to the painter.

The man set one and ’twas high though ’twould not have seemed so in an age when art was patronised and well paid for in a country where ’twas more generously encouraged than in England in the days of good Queen Anne.  In truth, the poor fellow did not expect to get half he asked, but hoped by beginning well to obtain from a Duke’s son twice what another gentleman would give him—­and he was prepared to haggle, if need be, for two hours.

But my lord Marquess did not haggle.  There had come into his countenance the look of a man who has made up his mind to take the thing he wants.  He drew forth his purse and paid down the sum in golden guineas and bank-notes, the painter’s eyes gloating as they were counted on the table and his head growing giddy with his joy.  He would have enough to live drunk for a year, after his own economical methods.  A garret—­and drink enough—­were all he required for bliss.  The picture was to be sent forthwith to Osmonde House, and these directions given, the two gentlemen turned to go.  But at the door the Marquess paused and spoke again.

“If any should come here before it is sent to me,” he said, “remember that ’tis already purchased and not on exhibition.”

The artist bowed low a dozen times.

“On my sacred honour, your lordship,” he replied, “none shall see it.”

Roxholm regarded him for a moment as if a new thought had presented itself to his mind.

“And remember also,” he added, “if any should ask you to try to paint a copy from memory—­or to lie in wait for the young lady again and make another—­’tis better”—­and his voice had in it both meaning and command—­“’tis far better to please a patron, than a purchaser who has a momentary caprice.  Live soberly and do honest work—­and bring to me what is worthy of inspection.  You need not starve unless ’tis your wish.”

“My lord Marquess,” cried the man; “your noble lordship,” and he made as if he would fall upon his knees.

Roxholm made a gesture towards the picture, still in its place upon the crazy chair.

“I told you that was no daub,” he said.  “A man who can do that much can do more if he has the spirit.”

And his visitors went out and left the artist in his garret, the stormy handsome creature gazing into space on one side, the guineas and bank-notes on the dusty table; and after having reflected upon both for a little space, he thrust his head out of the door and called for his landlady, who having beheld two richly clad gentlemen come from the attic, was inclined to feel it safe to be civil, and answering his summons went up to him, and being called in, was paid her long unpaid dues from the little heap on the table, the seeing of which riches almost blinded her and sent her off willingly to the pawnbroker’s to bring back the pledged breeches and coat and linen.

“The tall gentleman with so superb an air,” the poor man said, proudly, trembling with triumphant joy, “is my lord Marquess of Roxholm, and he is the heir of the ducal house of Osmonde, and promises me patronage.”