He threw the larger half of the canvas on the floor, and held the piece containing the chrysanthemums and their shadow in his thin shaking talon of a hand, moving it now nearer now further away from his half blind blood-shot eyes. I began to explain that only the chrysanthemums were by the wife of the painter of the picture, but he brushed me aside. "She can see," he said at last. "And she's honest. I was honest once. She can't always say all she sees--who can--but she sees _everything_. Bring me something more of hers." Reader, after immense cogitation I decided to take him two of Arthur's compositions, the couple which after hours of agitated vacillation he considered to be his best. They were all spread out in his studio, and I had to assist in his decision. He had on several occasions--knowing I attended the great man--hinted to me that he should like M. to see his work and advise him upon it, but I had never taken the hint. Mrs. Robinson was only surprised that he had not pressed to see her son's pictures earlier. She and Arthur evidently thought I had kept them from the famous painter's notice until now, as, indeed, I had. "And I must take something of yours too," I said kindly to Blanche as she put the two selected works of art into a magnificent portfolio. "Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Robinson. "Blanche paints sweetly too, but mostly copies. She's a wonderful hand at copying." "I have nothing," said Blanche, "except the goldfish." "Then I must take him," I said. This was regarded as a great joke by Arthur and his mother, and they could hardly believe I was in earnest until I sent Blanche for it. "It's Goldy to the very life," said Mrs. Robinson fondly, "and the shells and everything exact. Such a beautiful home for him." Arthur looked gloomily at the little picture, and for a moment I thought he would forbid my taking it, but I wrapped it up with decision, put it in the portfolio with the others, and departed. I found M. as usual in his armchair in his studio, leaning back livid and breathless, endeavouring so he whispered "to get forward with his dying." I assured him he was getting forward at a great pace. "Not quick enough for me, Giles," he said, "and you won't help me out, d---- you." I put the goldfish on a chair in front of him. He looked at it for some moments without seeing it, and then reared himself slowly in his chair. He began to speak in his broken husky voice, and for an instant I thought he had gone mad. "Ha!" he said, leaning forward towards the picture. "You're portrayed, sir. Your unsympathetic personality, your unhealthy spots, your dorsal redness, and your abdominal pallor, your sullen eye turned upwards to your captors and their crumbs, all these are rendered with lynx-eyed fidelity. Privacy is not for you. Like Marie Antoinette, you are always in the full view of your gaolers." He paused to take breath.