"I’m very sorry to disturb you, miss," began Mrs. Austin. Then she uttered an exclamation of surprise, as she looked round on the oil paintings propped up on the table, against the walls, on the old easel, and indeed everywhere about the room. Three or four were duplicates of the same picture, and the colours were very vivid and brilliant. Most of them were landscapes; but there were one or two ladies in ball-dresses, and a couple of gaily dressed lovers. "What do you think of them?" asked Alice Sinclair, who stood by the easel, a slight, tired girl in a huge, paint-smeared apron that completely covered her dress, which fell open at the throat, revealing a pretty white neck. "Well, I’m sure!" ejaculated the landlady. "I never saw such pictures! Have you done them, miss?" "Yes, I have painted them--that is, I mean, I have coloured them. Do you like them, Mrs. Austin?" The landlady thought of her son Silas, and the pretty sketches Doris had taken such pains over, and her answer came slowly, "They’d just suit some people. Now, my son Sam, who was never satisfied with his brother’s paintings, would go wild over these." "Is Mr. Sam an artist?" "No, he’s a cab-driver." Alice began to laugh rather hysterically, and, turning playfully to Mrs. Austin, she pushed her gently into the Windsor armchair. "Sit there," she said, "and listen to me. I like you because you speak the truth! I’m a bit of a sham, you know, and so are my pictures, and you have found me out." "I’m sure I beg pardon, miss." "No, it is I who must beg your pardon for using your garret for such a purpose." "The garret’s no worse for it, miss. And there’ll be lots and lots of people who will be that pleased with your pictures!" "Yes, there are more Sams in the world than Silases!" said Alice, with a little sigh. "And I give people what they want for their money." "Yes, of course, miss. When my boys were little ’uns they used to spend their pennies over humbugs. The money soon went, and so did the humbugs. But they were quite satisfied, having had their humbugs." "Just so--and my pictures are like the humbugs, only they don’t vanish, they stay. I’m a bit of a humbug myself," continued Alice ruefully. "I must say this, however," she added, "what I do I do from a good motive----" "And the motive’s everything," interposed the widow. "Mine is to make money--and I succeed in making heaps." "Oh, but, miss, surely to get money isn’t a very high motive, if I may say so."