“What a deal you do know, to be sure!” he said after a while. “I don’t know one of them that can make a thing clear like you, old man. It’s a shame----” and here he coughed and broke off, as if endeavouring to swallow his last words. “What is a shame?” The broken sentence changed Mr. Sandford’s mood again--the momentary cheer died away. “Daniells,” he said, “I want you to tell me what you meant the other day by forcing me to accept that man’s offer. Yes, you did. I should not have let him have the picture but for you.” “Forcing him! Oh, that’s a nice thing to say--the most obstinate fellow in all London!” “Never mind that; I can see you are fencing. Come, why did you do it?” Daniells paused for some time. He said a great many things to stave off his confusion, many half-things which involved others, and made his answer perhaps more clear than if he had put it directly into words. “I see,” Mr. Sandford said at last, “you thought it very unlikely that I should sell it at all to any one who knew better.” “It ain’t that. They don’t know half enough, hang ’em! or they wouldn’t run after a booby like Blank and neglect you.” Mr. Sandford smiled what he felt to be a very sickly smile. “We must let Blank have his day,” he said, “I don’t grudge it him; but I’d like to know why my chances are so bad. I have always sold my pictures.” Daniells gave him a sudden look, as if he would have spoken; then thought better of it, and said nothing. “I have had no reason to complain,” Mr. Sandford continued; “I have done very well on the whole. I have never had extravagant prices like Em or En.” “No,” said Daniells; “you see, you’ve never made an ’it. You’ve gone on doing good work, and you’ve always done good work. I’d say that if I were to die for it; but you’ve never made an ’it.” “I suppose that’s true; but you need not put it so very frankly,” said the painter, with a laugh. “Frankly! I’ve got occasion to put it frankly; and I say it’s a d----d shame--that’s what it is,” cried Daniells, raising his voice. “You’ve had occasion? Now that we’re on this subject, I should like to get to the bottom of it. You’ve had occasion?” “Well, of course,” said the picture dealer, “if you drive me into a corner. I’m in the middle of everything, and I hear what people say----” “What do they say? That I’ve lost my sense of colour like old Millrain, or fallen into my dotage like----” “Nonsense, Sandford! You know it’s nothing of the kind. Don’t talk such confounded nonsense. You are painting quite as well as ever, you know you are. They--people don’t care for that sort of thing. It’s too good for them, or you’re too good for them, or I don’t know what.” Mr. Sandford kept smiling--not for pleasure; he was conscious of that sort of fixed smile that might be thought a sneer, at those people for whom he was too good. “And you’ve had occasion,” he said, “to prove this?”