“And then, of course, there’s the economy slogan. ‘One pair of Gumbril’s Patent Small-Clothes will outlast six pairs of ordinary trousers.’ That’s easy enough. So easy that it’s really uninteresting.” Mr. Boldero waved it away. “We shall have to have pictures,” said Gumbril, parenthetically. He had an idea. “Oh, of course.” “I believe I know of the very man to do them,” Gumbril went on. “His name’s Lypiatt. A painter. You’ve probably heard of him.” “Heard of him!” exclaimed Mr. Boldero. He laughed. “But who hasn’t heard of Lydgate.” “Lypiatt.” “Lypgate, I mean, of course.” “I think he’d be the very man,” said Gumbril. “I’m certain he would,” said Mr. Boldero, not a whit behind-hand. Gumbril was pleased with himself. He felt he had done some one a good turn. Poor old Lypiatt; be glad of the money. Gumbril remembered also his own fiver. And remembering his own fiver, he also remembered that Mr. Boldero had as yet made no concrete suggestion about terms. He nerved himself at last to suggest to Mr. Boldero that it was time to think of this little matter. Ah, how he hated talking about money! He found it so hard to be firm in asserting his rights. He was ashamed of showing himself grasping. He always thought with consideration of the other person’s point of view—poor devil, could he afford to pay? And he was always swindled and always conscious of the fact. Lord, how he hated life on these occasions! Mr. Boldero was still evasive. “I’ll write you a letter about it,” he said at last. Gumbril was delighted. “Yes, do,” he said enthusiastically, “do.” He knew how to cope with letters all right. He was a devil with the fountain pen. It was these personal, hand-to-hand combats that he couldn’t manage. He could have been, he always felt, such a ruthless critic and satirist, such a violent, unscrupulous polemical writer. And if ever he committed his autobiography to paper, how breath-takingly intimate, how naked—naked without so much as a healthy sunburn to colour the whiteness—how quiveringly a sensitive jelly it would be! All the things he had never told any one would be in it. Confession at long range—if anything, it would be rather agreeable. “Yes, do write me a letter,” he repeated. “Do.” Mr. Boldero’s letter came at last, and the proposals it contained were derisory. A hundred pounds down and five pounds a week when the business should be started. Five pounds a week—and for that he was to act as a managing director, writer of advertisements and promoter of foreign sales. Gumbril felt thankful that Mr. Boldero had put the terms in a letter. If they had been offered point-blank across the luncheon table, he would probably have accepted them without a murmur. He wrote a few neat, sharp phrases saying that he could not consider less than five hundred pounds down and a thousand a year. Mr. Boldero’s reply was amiable; would Mr. Gumbril come and see him?