“Yes, tell me about yourself, Dick,” he said again.

“I have done a picture, if that is what you mean, besides some portraits; I have worked down here like a galley slave for the last three months.”

“And is the queer little estaminet in Soho still in evidence?  Do the men of to-morrow still meet there nightly and weigh the claims of the men of to-day?”

Lightmark smiled a trifle absently; his eyes had wandered off to his picture in the corner.

“Oh, I believe so!” he said at last; “I dine there occasionally when I have time.  But I have been going out a good deal lately, and I hardly ever do have time....  May I smoke, by the way?”

Rainham nodded gently, and the artist pulled out his case and started a fragrant cigarette.

“You see, Rainham,” he continued, sending a blue ring sailing across the room, “I am not so young as I was last year, and I have seen a good deal more of the world.”

“I see, Dick,” said Rainham.  “Well, go on!”

“I mean,” he explained, “that those men who meet at Brodonowski’s are very good fellows, and deuced clever, and all that; but I doubt if they are the sort of men it is well to get too much mixed up with.  They are rather outre, you know; though, of course, they are awfully good fellows in their way.”

“Precisely!” said Rainham, “you are becoming a very Solomon, Dick!”

He sat playing idly with the ring on his forefinger, watching the artist’s smoke with the same curiously obscure smile.  It had the effect on Lightmark now, as Rainham’s smile did on many people, however innocent it might be of satiric intention, of infusing his next remarks with the accent of apology.

“You see, Rainham, one has to think of what will help one on, as well as what one likes.  There is a man I have come to know lately—­a very good man too, a barrister—­who is always dinning that into me.  He has introduced me to some very useful people, and is always urging me not to commit myself.  And Brodonowski’s is rather committal, you know.  However, we must dine there together again one day, soon, and then you will understand it.”

“Oh, I understand it, Dick!” said Rainham.  “But let me see the picture while the light lasts.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Lightmark eagerly.  “We must not forget the picture.”  He hoisted it up to a suitable light, and Rainham stood by the bow-window, from which one almost obtained the point of view which the artist had chosen, regarding it in a critical silence.

“What do you call it?” he asked at last.

“‘The Gray River,’” said Lightmark; then a little impatiently:  “But how do you find it?  Are you waiting for a tripod?”

“I don’t think I shall tell you.  By falling into personal criticism, unless one is either dishonest or trivial, one runs the risk of losing a friend.”

“Oh, nonsense, man!  It’s not such a daub as that.  I will risk your candour.”