pounds, and all his tastes were far from being represented in the retreat where he spent his hours of highest enjoyment and endeavour.  Of late he had been beset by embarrassments which a man of his stamp could ill endure:  depreciation of investments, need of sordid calculation, humiliating encounters.  To-day he tasted the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it seemed to him that he should never again look with delight upon a picture, or feast his soul with music, or care to open a book.

A knock at the door aroused him.  It was a civil-tongued serving-woman who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day.  No; he was on the point of going forth.

Big Ben was striking twelve.  At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court.  He ascended stairs, and reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark, Solicitor.  An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room, where he was greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man, with gleaming visage, full lips, chubby hands.

“Well, what is it now?” inquired the visitor, who had been summoned hither by a note that morning.

Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his friend’s arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.

“What have you to say to that?”

“The ugliest thing I’ve seen for a long time.”

“But—­but—­” the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness—­ “but do know whose it is?”

The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.

“I know whose you think it is,” replied Glazzard, coldly.  His face still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but just opened after the oppression of nightmare.  “But it isn’t.”

“Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy.”

Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face and tone that the connoisseur s dogmatism troubled him more than he wished to have it thought.

“Winterbottom warrants it,” he added, with a triumphant jerk of his plump body.

“Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated.  That is no Morland; take my word for it.  Was that all you wanted me for?”

Mr. Stark’s good-nature was severely tried.  Mental suffering had made Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.

“You’re out of sorts this morning,” conjectured his legal friend.  “Let Morland be for the present.  I had another reason for asking you to call, but don’t stay unless you like.”

Glazzard looked round the office.

“Well?” he asked, more gently.

“Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham.  Any special reason?”

“Yes.  But I can’t talk about it.”