“Oh, but really, my good fellow, don’t you know! This is my ‘At Home’ day. I never talk business on these days, never. If you want to buy any of my pictures, or anything, don’t you know, you must come another day.” “I did not come about pictures, but about something vastly different and more serious.” “My good fellow--you’ll excuse my interrupting you, won’t you? There is no serious business except art, and to-day I don’t even talk art.” “Human lives,” said Marsten, hotly, “are more serious than art.” “Please don’t raise your voice. You are certainly wrong about things, but I haven’t time to correct you to-day, don’t you know. All one needs to say about your last remark is that human lives are ephemeral, while art is everlasting Therefore is art the more important of the two. But we’ll let that pass. Can’t you come and talk another day? I’m sure I shall be delighted to see you at any time.” “Couldn’t you give me five minutes out on the landing?” “It is impossible. I cannot leave my guests. You see, we have the dancing Earl on in a few moments. His Grace is just now arranging his skirts. I really must go, don’t you know.” “Then I will stay until the Earl has done his dancing, if that is what he is here for.” “Do, my dear fellow, do. A most excellent idea. I am sure you will like it, for though I have not seen the dance myself, I understand it is quite unique. Have a cup of tea. I would have sent you a card, if I had thought that any of my father’s workmen were interested in the latest movements of art; but never mind the lack of invitation. If you care to stay without it, I shall be delighted. It is really very good of you to drop in, in this unexpected way; it is the kind of thing I like, so Bohemian, don’t you know. You’ll excuse me now, I’m sure,” and Barney tripped away to see that all arrangements for the appearance of the Earl were complete. The model-stand had been pushed to one end of the room fronting the audience; heavy curtains had been drawn across the big north window, leaving the place in semi-darkness; there was the hissing and sputtering of a lime-light in the gallery, causing inquisitive people to turn their heads and see what it was. Marsten stood against the wall beside another man, who said to him in a weary tone: “Who is this man, Barnard Hope?” “He is an artist,” answered Marsten, astonished that one guest should question a stranger regarding their mutual host. “Evidently,” replied the other “But who are his people, or has he any? “His father is one of the richest manufacturers in London.” “Egad, I was sure of it. I knew there was a shop somewhere in the background, the fellow is so beastly civil.”