"That is beyond me," I laughed. "Gray's Inn sounds a curious place for an artist." "I am an illuminator, not for money, but for my own pleasure. Do you know Italy?" "No." "At least you know that some of the old monks spent their hours in wonderful work of this kind, carefully illuminating the texts of works with marvelous design and color. Now and then some special genius arose and became a great fresco painter. Fra Angelico painted pictures for the world to marvel over, while some humbler brother pored over his illuminating. You will find some of this work in the British Museum." Evidently my newly acquired friend was an eccentric, I thought. "Pictures have no particular interest for me," he went on; "these illuminated texts have. I am an expert worker myself. First in Italy, now in Gray's Inn." "And there is no market for such work?" I enquired. "I believe not. I have never troubled to find out. I have no need of money, and if I had I could not bring myself to part with my work." "You interest me. I should like to see some of your work." "Why not? It is a short walk to Gray's Inn. To me you are rather wonderful. I have not felt inclined to talk to a stranger for years, and now I am anxious to show you what I have done. We will go when you like." I had not bargained for this. Had I foreseen that I should have a conversation forced upon me to-night I should have avoided Warburton's; even now I was inclined to excuse myself, but curiosity got the upper hand. I finished my wine and we went to Gray's Inn. On the way, I told him my name, but, apparently, he had never heard it, nor did he immediately tell me his. I purposely called him Mr. ---- and paused for the information. "Parrish," he said. "Bather a curious name," and then he went on talking about illuminating, evidently convinced that I was intensely interested. It was the man who interested me, not his work, and the interest was heightened when I entered his rooms. He occupied two rooms at the top of a dreary building devoted to men of law. The rooms were well enough in themselves, but the furniture was in the last stage of dilapidation, there were holes in the carpet, and everything looked forlorn and poverty-stricken. I glanced at my companion. Certainly, his clothes were a little shabby, but quite good, and he was oblivious to the decayed atmosphere of his surroundings. He drew me at once to a large table, where lay the work he was engaged upon. Of its kind, it was marvelous both in design and execution, reproducing the color effects of the old illuminators so exactly that it was almost impossible to tell it from that of the old monks. This is not my opinion, but that of the expert from the British Museum when he pronounced upon the work later. "Wonderful," I said. "And there is no sale for it?"