He made for Southampton Row, reaching the office at ten o'clock, about five minutes after James Hancock. Hancock was dealing with his morning correspondence. A most unbendable old gentleman he looked as he sat at his table before a pile of letters, backed by the numerous tin boxes Leavesley knew so well. Boxes marked "The Gleeson Estate," "Sir H. Tempest, Bart," etc. Boxes that spoke of wealth and business in mocking tones to the unfortunate artist, who felt very much as the grasshopper must have felt in the presence of the industrious ant. Despite this he noticed that his uncle was more sprucely dressed than usual, and that he had on a lilac satin tie. Hancock looked at his nephew over his spectacles, then through his spectacles, then he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead. "Good morning, uncle." "Good morning." "I just looked in," said Leavesley, in a light-hearted way, "as I was going by, to see how you were." This was a very bad opening. "Sit down," said Hancock. "Um--I wasn't aware that there was anything the matter with me." "You were complaining of the gout last time." "Oh, bother the gout!" said the old gentleman, who hated to be reminded of his infirmity. "It isn't gout--Garrod says it's Rheumatoid Arthritis." Leavesley repented of having played the gout gambit. "--Rheumatoid Arthritis. Well, what are you doing?" "Oh, I'm painting." "Are you _selling_?" said Hancock, "that's more to the point." "Oh yes, I'm selling--mildly." "Um!" "I sold two pictures quite recently." "I always told you," said the lawyer, ignoring the last statement in a most irritating way, and speaking as if Leavesley were made of glass and all his affairs were arranged inside him for view like damaged goods in a shop window--"I always told you painting doesn't pay. If you had come into the office you might have got on well; but there you are, you've made your bed, and on it you must lie," then in a voice three shades gloomier, "on it you must lie." Leavesley glanced at the office clock, it pointed to quarter past ten, and Fanny was due at one. "I had a little business to talk to you about," he said. "Look here, will you give me a commission?" "A what?" "A commission for a picture." "And five pounds on account," was in his brain, but it did not pass his tongue. "A picture?" said Hancock. "What on earth do I want with pictures?" "Let me paint your portrait." Hancock made a movement with his hand as if to say "Pish!" "Well, look here," said Leavesley, with the cynicism of despair, "let me paint Bridgewater, let me paint the office, whitewash the ceilings, only give me a show."