My customer's satisfaction at the way in which the work had been done could not be concealed, and indeed the pictures did look very fine when in position. Then he asked me nonchalantly if I had brought the bill. I handed it to him. He glanced at it and said, "Oh! you have made a gross mistake. You agreed to do the work for £2 pounds, and this bill is for £5." For a moment I was speechless, and then replied as calmly as I could, "I have made no mistake, sir; you wanted me to do the work for £2, and I told you it was impossible. I have to pay my gilder £4. 5s., and he is now waiting for the money at the Plough." "Well," he rejoined casually, "that's nothing to do with me; you'll get £2 or nothing. You can please yourself." Now I am anything but a courageous man, but I felt desperate, and although he towered over me like a giant with a very threatening air, I said, quite coolly, "You owe me £5 for work done, and I shall not leave this house until I get it," at which he laughed merrily and retorted, "Ah! so that's your little game is it? Very well, stay here until I'm tired of you, then I'll throw you into the road." So I sat down on the nearest chair (I was then in a partly furnished drawing room), and resigned myself to wait. Fortunately, there was a book there, Kipling's "Light that Failed," and I began to read. Now strange as it my seem, so great is the power of detachment from circumstances over which I have no control that I have always possessed, that I read that book through with the utmost enjoyment, only an occasional cross current of compunction traversing my mind for the weary wait imposed upon my faithful coadjutor. I had finished the book about a quarter of an hour, which means that I had been in the house nearly four hours, when the _gentleman_ came in and said, with assumed surprise, "What, you here still? How much did you say you wanted?" "£5," I replied quietly. "All right, here you are," he answered, holding out a £5 note to me. I took it, examined it, said "thank you," and walked out of the house.