A ring at the door! The housekeeper announced “Mr. Mortimer,” and Maddison fumed that he had forgotten to say that he expected a sitter, and was not to be disturbed. “Well, George,” said Mortimer, putting up his eyeglass as he walked into the room. “I’m extra busy at the office, so it’s jollier than ever to come up and waste an hour with you. It’s no fun lounging when there’s no reason why you should not do so. Ah! you were expecting some one—me, of course!” He glanced at the luncheon table, quizzically. He was short, sturdy, with a somewhat bullet-shaped head, covered—though thin at top—with crisp, curly black hair. His features were Oriental in cast, with a tendency toward coarseness, and his voice somewhat thick and heavy. He sat down on the steps that led up to the broad, deep bow window, laying down his glossy hat and natty stick on the rug beside him. “I had meant to stay at least half an hour, and possibly to carry you off to lunch, but——” “But you think I don’t want you,” answered Maddison, laughing. “I don’t think I shall mind much. I was expecting an old friend, whom I met the other day for the first time for years. She’s going to sit for me——” “My dear fellow, why explain? Who would suspect you of being foolish enough to lunch alone when good company was procurable? I notice you say you _were_ expecting?” “Mrs. Squire was to have been here at eleven; then two hours’ work, then lunch. It’s now half-past twelve——” “Did you fix any time for lunch?” “Have a cigarette and don’t be cynical. You forget that pose don’t pay with me. How people would laugh if they found you out! Not a cynical old bachelor, but just as romantic and soft hearted as man could be.” “They won’t laugh, because they never will know. Even if you told them, they’d not believe you. Is it a portrait or a picture you’re starting out on?” “Picture. I won’t talk about it, though. As you know, I can’t talk about my ideas; they must just boil over, and then, if possible, or as far as possible, I get them on canvas. What a painter I should be if only I could make facts of all my fancies. There’s the blank canvas, and in my mind the picture. I wonder will you ever see it?” “I wonder are you as impressionable as you used to be? And—it’s a beastly word, but there is no other—and as romantic as you still appear to be? As far as I know, you’ve never really been in love, George: perhaps it’s better that way for a painter or a poet, never to feel very deeply. He should understand deep feelings, but never experience them. What do you think?” “I don’t think about art. Art’s in us, and comes out as well as it can. That’s all there is to it. There’s only one rule of art: don’t lie, don’t make up things; and if you can hit on a new truth, or can tell an old truth perfectly, you’re a genius. That’s all.” “What are you?” “How can I know?” “You’re not in love, George?” “What the deuce makes you say that? Who said I was?”