“Yes,” continued Barney, placidly; “so I went to the workmen to see what _they_ had to say about it. They said at once that the capital had been refunded over and over again. I went back to Sartwell to see if this were true, and it was true. Well, then----” “What then?” “Under the circumstances it seemed to me that the workmen had made a most magnanimous proposal. If a man would paint a picture for me which I could sell for five hundred pounds and he was content to take fifty for it and leave me the other four hundred and fifty, I should think him the most generous of men.” “Stop talking nonsense, please. Is Sartwell going to receive the men?” “I suppose so.” “Then you must instantly go back to the city and tell him he is to do nothing of the sort.” “But, mater--” protested the young man. He looked uneasily around the room and saw that Lady Mary had slipped away unperceived. “Don’t talk. You’ve done enough harm already. Try and undo it.” “But I say! It’s rather rough on me, mater. When you promised me a cheque for three hundred, I didn’t imagine I would have to see old Sartwell a second time and take back all I said. He would think me an ass then.” “He thinks it already. But it doesn’t matter what he thinks. It is what he does that you have to deal with. You must see him at once and stop this nonsense about a conference.” Barney shook his head dolefully. “I don’t see how I can face him again, mater. I’d rather lose the three-hundred-pound cheque.” “The cheque has nothing to do with the question. I should hope you are not attending to this for the three hundred pounds. But I’ll write you a cheque for five hundred, if that will satisfy you. Then I hope to hear no more about five hundred a year. Be consistent at least, Barnard.” “Thanks, mater, I’ll try. And while you are writing out the cheque I’ll have a word with Lady Mary.” “Very well,” said his mother, rising. The request did not seem to displease her. When the young lady came in Barney was wonderfully bright after his long discussion. “I was afraid I was in the way,” said Lady Mary, modestly, “I don’t know much about work-people.” “The labour question,” said Barney, “is an exceedingly intricate one, and I’m afraid I don’t quite understand it in all its bearings myself; but it’s most interesting, I assure you--most interesting. I’m a labouring man myself, now. I’ve got my studio all fitted upland I work like a--let’s see, is it a Turk--or a nigger?” “I think a nailer is the simile you want.” “Very likely. I don’t suppose a Turk works if he can help it. Oh, by the way, Lady Mary, I have ‘At Homes’ at my studio every Tuesday from three till five. I wish you would come. Get your father to bring you. I want a real live Lord, don’t you know, to--well--to give tone to the gathering.” Lady Mary laughed. “I should like to go very much. I was never in a studio since I had my portrait painted. I’ll ask my father, but he doesn’t go out very often.”