The figure delighted his father and mother, for it showed them the high opinion of their wonder-son held among their own people. It was terrible to him to find that he had very little pleasure in his work, which very often gave him excruciating pain. He took it to mean that he was coming to an end of his talent. Night after night he sat on his bed feeling that he must make an end of his life, but always there was some piece of painting that he must do in the morning, painful though it might be. He had letters from Mitchell, but did not answer them, and at last "the schoolboy," as Golda called him, turned up, gay and smiling and rather elated. "I've discovered a great man," he said with the awkward, jerky gesture he used in his more eloquent moments. "Absolutely a great man. Reminds me of Napoleon. Wonderful head, wonderful! His name is Logan--James Logan--and he wants to know you. He is a painter, and absolutely independent. He comes from the North--Liverpool or one of those places. I haven't seen his work, but I met him at the Pot-au-Feu the other night. He asked me if I was not a friend of yours, as he thought he had seen me with you. He said: 'Kühler is the only painter of genius we have.' I spent the evening with him. I never heard such talk. It made the old Detmold seem like a girls' school. . . . Hallo! Still-life again? What a rum old stick you are for never going outside your four walls!" "What I paint is inside me, not outside," said Mendel, trembling with rage at Mitchell looking at his work before he had offered to show it. "Will you come and see Logan?" "No. I am sick of painters. I want to know decent people." "But I promised I would bring you, and he admires your work. He is poor too, as poor as you are." "Can't he sell?" "It isn't that so much as that he doesn't try. He says he had almost despaired of English painting until he saw your work." "How old is he?" "A good deal older than us. Twenty-six, I should think." "Why don't you just stick to me?" asked Mendel. "What more do you want? Why must you always go off on a new track? First it's Hetty Finch, then it's Morrison, and now it's this new man. We were happy enough by ourselves. Why do you want anything more? I don't." "You're used to living on dry bread. I'm not. I want butter with mine, and jam, if I can get it." "Then get it and don't bother me to go chasing after it. I want to work." "Oh, rot! All that stuff about artists starving in garrets is out of date. It only happened because they couldn't find patrons, but nowadays there are dealers and buyers. . . . Just look at the money you are making." "Then why is this Logan poor?" "He isn't known yet. He doesn't know the artists because he never went to a London school. He was doing quite well in the North, but threw it all up because he couldn't stand living in such a filthy town. He had a teaching job somewhere in Hammersmith, but he threw that up because he wanted his time to himself."