"At the same time, I gather that whatever your merits, this is one of your lean years, eh?" "Devilish," said Lucas. "That must be discouraging?" "It might be if I let it." "That is a damned good answer, Vernon," said Mr. Walkingshaw emphatically. Before the three young men had recovered from the sympathetic surprise which this reply occasioned, he had planted himself in front of the unfinished picture on the easel. "What's this you're doing? A wood? Ah, yes, I recognize the trees. Very lifelike indeed--most creditable. What's the price of it, if I may ask?" "What I can get," replied Lucas, with a reminiscence of his afternoon's despair. "Still the same unpractical fellow!" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw. "You're not very strong on figures, eh?" "I don't meet many," said the artist candidly. "Well," suggested his visitor kindly, "what about fifty pounds?" "I'd think myself devilish lucky." "May I have it at that?" "_You?_" "It isn't booked already, I trust?" "N--no." "That's a bargain, then?" Lucas's eyes were again fixed in a strange stare. Then a quick change of expression broke over his face. "You're very kind, Mr. Walkingshaw!" he said warmly. "Tuts, tuts, not a bit. I want to warm up my study with a splash of color. That's the way you artists would put it. Eh?" "A splash of color--yes." "You see, I'm getting the hang of your lingo already, Vernon. And now, what else have you got for sale? What do you recommend, Hillary, eh?" That young man displayed a sudden aptitude for business which had never characterized his own efforts to make a livelihood. "As a work of art likely to rise enormously in value, I conscientiously recommend that," he said, pointing to another canvas. "A nice head," commented Mr. Walkingshaw. "High-toned yet spiritual, one might term it. I like the way the eyes seem to look out of the paper--or is it canvas it's done on?" "Oh--er--I beg your pardon," said Lucas, waking suddenly from his reverie; "I--I'll let you have that thrown in." "Wits a wool-gathering, Vernon?" smiled his patron indulgently. "But I dare say you've some excuse. I'll take the picture with pleasure, but I insist on paying for it. Let us put this at twenty-five pounds." "I won't let you!" cried Lucas. "I give it you--I make you a present of it. You've been so kind already--" "Pooh! Come, come," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw kindly, yet firmly. "You've got to make your way, and how will you do that if you give away your--fruits of the brush you'd call them, I suppose, eh?"