“I wanted to learn about things,” said Paul.

The young man looked at him and smiled.  “Self-education is a jolly good thing,” said he.  “Learn all you can, and you’ll be a famous fellow one of these days.  But you must cultivate a sense of humour.”

Paul was about to seek enlightenment as to this counsel when Barney Bill appeared, cool and refreshed, from the inn door, and lifted a cheery voice.  “Let’s be getting along, sonny.”

Rowlatt held up a detaining hand.  “Just a couple of minutes, if you can spare them.  I’ve nearly finished.”

“All right, sir,” said Barney Bill, limping across the yard.  “Taking a picture of him?”

The artist nodded.  Barney Bill looked over his shoulder.  “By Gosh!” he cried in admiration.  “By Gosh!”

“It has come out rather well, hasn’t it?” said the artist, complacently.

“It’s the living image of ’im,” said Barney Bill.

“He tells me he’s going up to London to seek his fortune,” said Rowlatt, putting in the finishing touches.

“And his ’igh-born parents,” said Barney Bill, winking at Paul.

Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably.  Instinct deprecated crude revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement.  He felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence.  Gutter-bred though he was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste.  Of such a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been guilty.  Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr. Rowlatt did not demand explanation.

“A young Japhet in search of a father.  Well, I hope he’ll find him.  There’s nothing like romance.  Without it life is flat and dead.  It’s what atmosphere is to a picture.”

“And onions to a stew,” said Barney Bill.

“Quite right,” said Rowlatt.  “Paul, my boy, I think after all you’d better stick to Mr.—?”

“Barney Bill, sir, at your service.  And, if you want a comfortable chair, or an elegant mat, or a hearth brush at a ridiculous cheap price”—­he waved toward the van.  Rowlatt turned his head and, laughing, looked into the twinkling black eyes.  “I don’t for a moment expect you to buy, sir, but I was only a-satisfying of my artistic conscience.”

Rowlatt shut his sketch-book with a snap, and rose.  “Let us have a drink,” said he.  “Artists should be better acquainted.”

He whispered a message to Paul, who sped to the inn and presently returned with a couple of the famous blue and white mugs frothing deliciously at the brims.  The men, their lips to the bubbles, nodded to each other.  The still beat of the August noon enveloped their bodies, but a streak of heavenly coolness trickled through their souls.  Paul, looking at them enviously, longed to be grown up.

Then followed a pleasant half-hour of desultory talk.  Although the men did not make him, save for here and there a casual reference, the subject of their conversation, Paul, with the Vision shimmering before his eyes, was sensitive enough to perceive in a dim and elusive way that he was at the back of each man’s thoughts and that, for his sake, each was trying to obtain the measure of the other.  At last Barney Bill, cocking at the sun the skilled eye of the dweller in the wilderness, called the time for departure.