“Oh, I’m not denying that,” said the Lord of the Manor. “All I say is that seven-fifty’s a lot of money. Whe-ew! I’m glad my daughter does sketching. Think if I’d had to furnish the bedrooms with pictures at seven-fifty a time!” He laughed. Mr. Bigger smiled. “You must also remember,” he said, “that you’re making a very good investment. Late Venetians are going up. If I had any capital to spare----” The door opened and Miss Pratt’s blonde and frizzy head popped in. “Mr. Crowley wants to know if he can see you, Mr. Bigger.” Mr. Bigger frowned. “Tell him to wait,” he said irritably. He coughed and turned back to the Lord of the Manor. “If I had any capital to spare, I’d put it all into late Venetians. Every penny.” He wondered, as he said the words, how often he had told people that he’d put all his capital, if he had any, into primitives, cubism, nigger sculpture, Japanese prints.... In the end the Lord of the Manor wrote him a cheque for six hundred and eighty. “You might let me have a typewritten copy of the story,” he said, as he put on his hat. “It would be a good tale to tell one’s guests at dinner, don’t you think? I’d like to have the details quite correct.” “Oh, of course, of course,” said Mr. Bigger, “the details are most important.” He ushered the little round man to the door. “Good morning. Good morning.” He was gone. A tall, pale youth with side whiskers appeared in the doorway. His eyes were dark and melancholy; his expression, his general appearance, were romantic and at the same time a little pitiable. It was young Crowley, the painter. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Mr. Bigger. “What did you want to see me for?” Mr. Crowley looked embarrassed, he hesitated. How he hated having to do this sort of thing! “The fact is,” he said at last, “I’m horribly short of money. I wondered if perhaps you wouldn’t mind--if it would be convenient to you--to pay me for that thing I did for you the other day. I’m awfully sorry to bother you like this.” “Not at all, my dear fellow.” Mr. Bigger felt sorry for this wretched creature who didn’t know how to look after himself. Poor young Crowley was as helpless as a baby. “How much did we settle it was to be?” “Twenty pounds, I think it was,” said Mr. Crowley timidly. Mr. Bigger took out his pocket-book. “We’ll make it twenty-five,” he said. “Oh no, really, I couldn’t. Thanks very much.” Mr. Crowley blushed like a girl. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to have a show of some of my landscapes, would you?” he asked, emboldened by Mr. Bigger’s air of benevolence. “No, no. Nothing of your own.” Mr. Bigger shook his head inexorably. “There’s no money in modern stuff. But I’ll take any number of those sham Old Masters of yours.” He drummed with his fingers on Lady Hurtmore’s sleekly painted shoulder. “Try another Venetian,” he added. “This one was a great success.” YOUNG ARCHIMEDES