Haldiman, one of the most talented students he had met in Paris, had now a garret of his own in London, where he painted when he got time, and did black and white work for the magazines and illustrated weeklies to keep himself in money. Barney had invited all his own old Parisian friends, one by one, to see his new quarters. “Wonderful!” said Haldiman. “I venture to say there is not another studio in London like it.” “That was my intention,” replied Barney. “They told me that Sir Richard Daubs had the finest studio in London. I said nothing, but went to work, and here I am. Have you ever seen Daubs’ studio, Hurst?” “No. He is not so friendly as you are, Barney; he has never invited me.” “Well, I’ll get you an invitation, and I want you to tell me candidly what you think of mine as compared with his.” “Thanks, old man, but don’t trouble about the invitation for me. I haven’t any time to spare; merely came up here, you know, because we had been in Paris together. Daubs’ studio has one great advantage over many others--it contains a man who can paint.” “Oh, yes, Haldiman, that’s all right. That’s the old Paris gag, you know. Ever since I heaped the boys one on top of the other, they have revenged themselves by saying I couldn’t paint; but you should be above that sort of thing, Haldiman, you really should. You see I’m a plain, straight-forward fellow, and I’ve got what is admitted to be the finest studio in London; but does that make any difference between me and my old friends? Not a bit of it, and the fact that you are sitting there proves it. I’m a born Bohemian; I despise riches, and my very best friends are fellows who haven’t a sou-markee. _You_ know that, Haldiman.” Haldiman lit another of Hope’s very excellent cigarettes. Barney imported them from Egypt himself, and said they were the same brand the Khedive smoked until one of the war correspondents informed him that the Khedive was not a smoker. Then Barney slightly varied the praise. “Help yourself, dear boy. You’ll find they’re not half bad as cigarettes go. I get them direct, for you can’t trust these rascally importers. The Khedive is not a smoker himself, still he keeps nothing but the best for his guests, and this is the identical brand, as supplied to him. “Now about this painting business,” continued Barney. “I venture to say that there was a time when Daubs was utterly unknown. Very well. Here also am I utterly unknown. The public won’t buy my pictures. I don’t conceal that fact. Why should I? I sent a picture to the Birmingham exhibition--I don’t say it was great, but I do claim it had individuality. They rejected it!” “You amaze me!” “I give you my word of honour they did, Haldiman. Birmingham! Think of that! A town that manufactures nails and gun-barrels.” “Oh, art in England is going to the dogs,” said Haldiman, dejectedly.