He allowed that to sink in and was silent for a minute or two. Then he chattered on gaily and asked Golda to come and see him, and bragged about his studio and his work and his friends, and of a commission he had to decorate a large house in a West End square. He talked so fast that Golda understood very little of what he said, but she never took her eyes off him, and when he said good-bye, Mendel noticed that she did not bob to him as she did to Mitchell and Morrison and his other polite friends. He took that to mean that she accepted Logan as a person above these formalities. For an hour they walked through the streets and squares of the East End, Mendel proud to display the vivid scenes he intended later on to make into pictures. When they returned to the studio Logan insisted on seeing all the pictures and drawings again. "Are you in touch with any dealer?" he asked. "Cluny has a few pictures and a dozen drawings. He never does anything with them." "Hum!" said Logan. "Dealers are mysterious people. They can only sell things that sell themselves. By the way, I am giving up my studio in Hammersmith. It is too far away. I shall come nearer in. Hammersmith was all very well while I needed isolation, but that is all over now." "Where shall you go to?" "Bloomsbury, I think. I like to be near the British Museum. Do you go to the British Museum? I must show you round. It is no good going there unless you know what to look for. By the way, I came out without any money last night. Can you lend me five pounds?" Mendel wrote a cheque and handed it to him shamefacedly. "I want to pay a bill on my way home," said Logan. "I hate being in debt, especially for colours." "I get my colours from Cluny," said Mendel, "and he sets them against anything he may sell." The irruption of money had depressed him, and he began to realize that he was very tired. The springs of Rosa's sofa had bored into him and prevented his getting any real sleep. He was not sorry when Logan went, after making him promise to meet him at the Pot-au-Feu for dinner. * * * * * He had a model coming at eleven, but when she arrived he sent her away. He was sore and dissatisfied. The studio seemed dark and dismal, and he could not get enough light on to his work. He took it right up to the window, but still there was not enough light, and his picture looked dull and dingy. His nerves throbbed and he was troubled in spirit, for now his old dreams of painting quietly among his own people while fame gathered about his name had suddenly become childish and pathetic. He was ignorant, futile, conceited, a pigmy by the side of the gigantic Logan, who would not wait upon the world, but would compel its attention and shape it to his will. What had he said artists were? Priests and prophets? . . . How could a man prophesy with a painting of a fish?