With tremulous excitement he secretly produced his box of paints again, and squeezed out the colours on to the plate he used for a palette. He adored the colours and amused himself with painting smooth strips of blue, yellow, green, red, orange, grey, for the sheer delight of handling the delicious stuff. It was a new pleasure, the joy of colours in themselves without reference to any object, or any feeling inside himself except this simple thrilling delight. He could forget everything in it, for it was his first taste of childish glee. Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing could ever again so oppress and overwhelm him as distasteful and even pleasant things had done in the past. He would be an artist, a wonderful artist, like W. P. Frith, R.A. So when he was called into the kitchen one night and they told him he was to go into Mr. Jacobson's office, he looked as though their words had no meaning for him, and he said:-- "I want to be an artist." An artist? Nobody knew quite what that meant. Golda thought it meant painting pictures, but she could not imagine a man devoting all his time to it--a child's pastime. "He means the drawing!" said Abramovich. "I had a friend at home who used to paint the flowers on the cups." "I'm going to be an artist," said Mendel. "But you've got to make your money like everybody else," replied Issy. Mendel retorted with details of what he could remember of the career of his idol. Issy said that was a _Christlicher kop._ There weren't such things as Jewish artists; whereon Harry threw in the word "Rubinstein." Asked to explain what he meant, he did not know, but had just remembered the name. Abramovich said he thought Rubinstein was a conductor at the Opera, and there were Jewish singers and actors. "My father," said Harry, "won't hear of that. He won't have a son of his making a public show of himself." Mendel by this time was white in the face, and his eyes were glaring out of his head. He knew that not one of them had understood his meaning, and he felt that Issy was bent on having his way with him. He was in despair at his helplessness, and at last, when he could endure no more, he flung himself down on the floor and howled. Issy lost his temper with him, picked him up, and carried him, kicking and biting, upstairs, and flung him on his bed. The subject was dropped for a time, but Mendel refused to eat, or to sleep, or to leave the house. He was afraid that if he put his nose outside the door Abramovich would pounce on him and drag him off to Mr. Jacobson's office.