Perhaps the happiest moment of poor Arthur's tawdry inflamed existence was when I told him that the great M. had bought his pictures. The latent suspicion and smouldering animosity died out of his eyes. He became radiant, boyish, for the moment sane. Perhaps he had looked like that before the shadow fell. Blanche, too, was suffused with delight. Mrs. Robinson, hurrying in with an armful of lilac orchids, was overjoyed. She burst forth in loud jubilation, not unlike the screeches of the London "syrens" when they herald the coming in of the New Year. She it seemed had _always_ known, _always_ seen her boy's genius. He would get into the Academy now, from which jealousy had so long kept him out. He would be hung on the line. He would be recognised. He would be as great as M. himself, greater, for she and others among her friends had never fancied his pictures. They had not the lofty moral tone of Arthur's. I produced the cheque. "One hundred pounds for Arthur," I said, "and five pounds for the goldfish." Blanche started violently and looked incredulously at me. Arthur's jaw dropped. Then he said patronizingly, "Well done, Blanche," and leaned back pallid and exhausted on the satin couch. "I must see him," he said over and over again as his mother laid a warm rug over his knees, and his wife put a cushion behind his head. "He could tell me things, tricks of the trade. Art is all a trick." "He found no fault with your work," I said, "but--don't be discouraged, Blanche--he did criticise yours. He said you could not put down all you saw." "What have I always told you, Blanche?" said Arthur solemnly. "You put down what you _don't_ see. Look at that shadow where I had not put one." "He is really too ill to see anyone, but he will speak to Blanche for a few minutes." I turned to her. "You must not mind if he is severe. He is a drastic critic. Would you like to put on your hat and come with me? I am going on to him now." I had some difficulty in getting her out of the house. Mrs. Robinson wanted to come too. Arthur was determined that she should wait till he was better, and they could go together. But I had long since established my authority in that household. I had my way. Blanche asked no questions as we drove along. She did not seem the least surprised that the greatest painter of his day had bought her husband's pictures. Was she lacking in intelligence? Was there some tiny screw loose in her mind? M. had not made a toilet as I half expected he would. When we came in he was standing with his back to us, leaning against the mantelpiece, his unshaved chin on his hands. His horrible old dressing gown, stained with paint, and showing numerous large patches of hostile colours, clung to him more tightly than ever. His decrepitness struck me afresh. He looked what, indeed, he was, an old and depraved man, repulsive, formidable--unwashed--a complex wreck, dying indomitably on his feet.