Whatever talent or genius the Pomeranian artist might possess, it certainly failed to receive commercial sanction.  The portfolio remained bulky with unsold sketches, and the “Euston Siesta,” as the wits of the Nuremberg nicknamed the large canvas, was still in the market.  The outward and visible signs of financial embarrassment began to be noticeable; the half-bottle of cheap claret at dinner-time gave way to a small glass of lager, and this in turn was displaced by water.  The one-and-sixpenny set dinner receded from an everyday event to a Sunday extravagance; on ordinary days the artist contented himself with a sevenpenny omelette and some bread and cheese, and there were evenings when he did not put in an appearance at all.  On the rare occasions when he spoke of his own affairs it was observed that he began to talk more about Pomerania and less about the great world of art.

“It is a busy time there now with us,” he said wistfully; “the schwines are driven out into the fields after harvest, and must be looked after.  I could be helping to look after if I was there.  Here it is difficult to live; art is not appreciate.”

“Why don’t you go home on a visit?” some one asked tactfully.

“Ah, it cost money!  There is the ship passage to Stolpmunde, and there is money that I owe at my lodgings.  Even here I owe a few schillings.  If I could sell some of my sketches—­”

“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs. Nougat-Jones, “if you were to offer them for a little less, some of us would be glad to buy a few.  Ten shillings is always a consideration, you know, to people who are not over well off.  Perhaps if you were to ask six or seven shillings—­”

Once a peasant, always a peasant.  The mere suggestion of a bargain to be struck brought a twinkle of awakened alertness into the artist’s eyes, and hardened the lines of his mouth.

“Nine schilling nine pence each,” he snapped, and seemed disappointed that Mrs. Nougat-Jones did not pursue the subject further.  He had evidently expected her to offer seven and fourpence.

The weeks sped by, and Knopfschrank came more rarely to the restaurant in Owl Street, while his meals on those occasions became more and more meagre.  And then came a triumphal day, when he appeared early in the evening in a high state of elation, and ordered an elaborate meal that scarcely stopped short of being a banquet.  The ordinary resources of the kitchen were supplemented by an imported dish of smoked goosebreast, a Pomeranian delicacy that was luckily procurable at a firm of delikatessen merchants in Coventry Street, while a long-necked bottle of Rhine wine gave a finishing touch of festivity and good cheer to the crowded table.

“He has evidently sold his masterpiece,” whispered Sylvia Strubble to Mrs. Nougat-Jones, who had come in late.

“Who has bought it?” she whispered back.

“Don’t know; he hasn’t said anything yet, but it must be some American.  Do you see, he has got a little American flag on the dessert dish, and he has put pennies in the music box three times, once to play the ‘Star-spangled Banner,’ then a Sousa march, and then the ’Star-spangled Banner’ again.  It must be an American millionaire, and he’s evidently got a very big price for it; he’s just beaming and chuckling with satisfaction.”