“Indeed, you do me wrong,” said Sartwell, with a grim smile. “I consider you of much greater value in the studio than here. I have no doubt posterity and I will quite agree in our estimate of your labour. Artists are few and labourers many. It would be a real disaster if our present crisis were to interfere with your artistic work. Therefore, although I am flattered by your generous offer of help, I could not think of availing myself of it. No; the studio is your place, Mr. Hope.” “It’s uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Sartwell, to say so many nice things about my efforts, and I assure you I appreciate them, for I don’t have too many encouragements--I don’t, I assure you. This is such a beastly materialistic world, don’t you know. Has my father got home yet?” “Yes; he returned last night.” “Ah, I didn’t know that. Terribly upset, I suppose?” “A trifle worried.” “Naturally he would be. Well, there’s nothing I can do for you then?” “Nothing, unless you undertake the decoration of the new factory, and thus send it down to posterity with the Vatican frescoes. Still, that question won’t arise for a month or two yet.” “Quite so. I’ll think about it. Well, if you need me, you know my address. A wire will bring me at any time.” “It’s generous of you to stand ready to leap into the chasm in this way, but take my advice and stick to the studio. Nevertheless, I’ll remember, and let you know if a crisis arises with which I am unable to deal single-handed.” “Do,” cried Barney, again shaking hands with good-natured effusion. “Well, good-by!” He picked his way to the gates, and stepped into his waiting hansom, a well-merited feeling of having answered the stern call of duty cheering his heart as he drove away. It was a long drive to Haldiman’s studio, and Barney, telling the cabman he might have to wait an hour or two, dashed up the steps and rang the bell. Being admitted, he asked if Haldiman was at home; then sprang up the stairs, struck one startling knock on the studio door with the head of his stick, and entered. Haldiman stood at his easel, a black pipe in his mouth, an old jacket on his back, and a general air about him of not having brushed his hair for a week. A half-finished drawing in black and white decorated a great sheet of cardboard placed on the easel. “Hello, Barney!” he cried. “I thought that was your delicate way of announcing yourself. You look as trim and well-groomed as a shop-walker. Haven’t given up painting and taken to that line, have you?” “No, old man, I haven’t!” shouted Barney, slamming the door behind him and coming into the room like a cyclone. “And I’m not trim, for I have just had a railway journey, and went from Charing Cross to the works, and from the works here. I’ve had no time to go to the club and make myself pretty; I was in too much of a hurry to see you. So don’t be sarcastic, Haldiman.”