Lypiatt nodded, without saying anything. Mr. Boldero, meanwhile, was turning his bright, bird-like eyes about the studio. Mrs. Viveash’s portrait, all but finished now, was clamped to the easel. He approached it, a connoisseur. “It reminds me very much,” he said, “of Bacosso. Very much indeed, if I may say so. Also a little of ...” he hesitated, trying to think of the name of that other fellow Gumbril had talked about. But being unable to remember the unimpressive syllables of Derain he played for safety and said—“of Orpen.” Mr. Boldero looked inquiringly at Lypiatt to see if that was right. Lypiatt still spoke no word and seemed, indeed, not to have heard what had been said. Mr. Boldero saw that it wasn’t much good talking about modern art. This chap, he thought, looked as though something were wrong with him. He hoped he hadn’t got influenza. There was a lot of the disease about. “This little affair I was speaking of,” he pursued, in another tone, “is a little business proposition that Mr. Gumbril and I have gone into together. A matter of pneumatic trousers,” he waved his hand airily. Lypiatt suddenly burst out laughing, an embittered Titan. Where do flies go? Where do souls go? The barrel-organ, and now pneumatic trousers! Then, as suddenly, he was silent again. More literature? Another piece of acting? “Go on,” he said, “I’m sorry.” “Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Boldero indulgently. “I know the idea does seem a little humorous, if I may say so, at first. But I assure you, there’s money in it, Mr. Lydgate—Mr. Lypiatt. Money!” Mr. Boldero paused a moment dramatically. “Well,” he went on, “our idea was to launch the new product with a good swingeing publicity campaign. Spend a few thousands in the papers and then get it good and strong into the Underground and on the hoardings, along with Owbridge’s and John Bull and the Golden Ballot. Now, for that, Mr. Lypiatt, we shall need, as you can well imagine, a few good striking pictures. Mr. Gumbril mentioned your name and suggested I should come and see you to find out if you would perhaps be agreeable to lending us your talent for this work. And I may add, Mr. Lypiatt,” he spoke with real warmth, “that having seen this example of your work”—he pointed to the portrait of Mrs. Viveash—“I feel that you would be eminently capable of....” He did not finish the sentence; for at this moment Lypiatt leapt up from his chair and, making a shrill, inarticulate, animal noise, rushed on the financier, seized him with both hands by the throat, shook him, threw him to the floor, then picked him up again by the coat collar and pushed him towards the door, kicking him as he went. A final kick sent Mr. Boldero tobogganing down the steep stairs. Lypiatt ran down after him; but Mr. Boldero had picked himself up, had opened the front door, slipped out, slammed it behind him, and was running up the mews before Lypiatt could get to the bottom of the stairs.