“Oh!” said West, with a queer intonation, “I didn’t know you ever felt that way about your work. I thought you laughed at art for art’s sake, and all that damned nonsense, and preached that the laborer is worthy of his hire—eh?” “As a rule. But—somehow this has got hold of me.” “Or—the pretty model—eh? Well, I envy you; you’re a lucky devil. What’s the poor curate say? Or is he guilty of the ignorance which is bliss?” Maddison bit his lips; this raillery which before would have amused him, now made him angry. He felt that the best way to put an end to it would be to speak outright and to show that he did not like West’s tone. “Her husband does know. The facts are just these, West. Mrs. Squire has left her husband; it was a far from happy marriage. He’s High Church or something and won’t give her a divorce. So—we have to make the best of it. I think it right you should know exactly how matters stand, as she may, in fact, will, be coming down here, and your wife may chance to meet her with me.” “Oh, Agatha isn’t a prig. Nor is Alice.” “Alice?” “Miss Lane.” “Oh, yes, I forgot that was her Christian name. So now you understand why I may not wish to part with this picture. If anyone has it it shall be you, if you don’t change your mind.” “Change my mind! It’s not a thing I used often to do, but I seem always to be at it now. I meant to go up to town this morning, but didn’t. If I’d intended to come here, ten to one I should have run up to town. I’m too young to be growing old, but I feel deuced old all the same, at times.” He was again strolling vaguely about the room, now pausing to look at a sketch, now glancing out of the window at the undulating stretch of green down. “You look just as young as the first day I met you,” he continued; “haven’t changed a hair. I suppose it’s care that kills men as well as cats. There’s more real care in a successful career than in a failure. A small shopkeeper can’t lose much, and doesn’t run many risks. Now I—why, good Lord! I may go bust—sky high—any day. Big business is all a big gamble, the margin between a huge profit and a huge loss is so small—a puff of wind, and over you go on the money side. Now you—you’re above fate now; you’re known; competition can never touch you; the speculation is entirely on the part of those who buy your pictures. In a hundred years they may be worth thousands or nothing. Yes, you’re a lucky devil.” “Luck. Do you believe in luck?”