The artist could not but admit the force of this argument, and in the course of an hour had the satisfaction of selling, at considerably above his usual market price, no fewer than four of his masterpieces; while Mr. Walkingshaw, on his part, became the fortunate possessor of a promising but unfinished sylvan scene, the portrait of an unknown lady, a rainy day upon the Norfolk coast, and (what he considered the gem of the collection) a recognizable panorama of Edinburgh from the north, including among its minor details a splash of red ocher which he felt certain was the grand stand at the Scottish Union's football field. This recalled the sympathetic widow, and gave the picture a sentimental as well as an artistic value. He could have wished that on this, as indeed on most other occasions, the artist had paid more attention to verisimilitude and less to mere vague harmonies and so forth, but as he was assured by that intelligent young Hillary that this method was all the Go at present, and that his friend Lucas was recognized as a rising Dab at it. That at least is how he retailed the argument afterwards. At the conclusion of these arrangements he again drew the artist aside. "Would you like a check immediately," he inquired, "or upon delivery of the pictures?" With considerable animation Lucas assured him there was no hurry at all. "There is a distinction between punctuality and hurry," replied Mr. Walkingshaw. "I recommend it to your notice, Vernon. As to the date of payment, I suggest by the first post after the delivery of the pictures. Does that satisfy you?" "Quite," said the painter, with a subdued air. "Strenuous work, patience, and the cultivation of business habits are the recommendations I make to you, my dear fellow--as I would to any other young man. They have been, if I may say so, the secret of any little success I may have achieved myself. Good-by, Vernon, good-by!" He departed thus upon a note of austere benevolence, leaving behind him a grateful yet chastened artist. "Well, Frank," said he, as they drove back together, "that young fellow has managed to sell one or two pictures, I'm glad to find." His eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke, but before his son had time to reply the senior partner spoke again. "I only hope he keeps it up," was his addendum. For a young man, Frank had remarkable discretion (apart from his one lamentable lapse). He dutifully agreed with this sentiment, and then proceeded to congratulate his parent on the taste with which he had selected his pictures and the excellence of the investment he had made. Mr. Walkingshaw appeared gratified by his approval. "I don't throw my money away, Frank," he said complacently. "By the way, what's the cab fare?" "One and six," said Frank. In the temporary absence of the senior partner, Mr. Walkingshaw handed the man half a crown, and entered the hotel humming a romantic melody. As he crossed the hall a deferential attendant approached with a telegram.