Ringsmith is what is called a strong man. He knows the value of money, but he enjoys spending it. He lives in princely style, but he is not exactly a snob and he prides himself on his independence. His hobby is what he calls “picking winners”--men, not horses. He likes to “spot” some young fellow who he thinks has it in him to get on, then he backs him. He believes that nothing succeeds like success, having tested the truth of the saying himself. When something disagreeable has to be done, he does it and damns the consequences but he does not shrink from them. One afternoon old Peter Knott went to see the famous art dealer. The latter was sitting in a deep leather chair with his feet near the fender, a silver tea-service resplendent under a high silver lamp beside him. To Peter Knott, as he entered, the impression was that of a comfort both solid and luxurious. Ringsmith’s strong-willed face lit up. He had much regard for Peter, in spite of the latter’s being almost the only man who did not hesitate to say what he thought to him, whether palatable or not. “Ha, old bird! I know what you’ve come for.” Ringsmith has a large mouth, and although he is getting towards sixty his teeth are strong and sound. His voice is loud and its tone bullying, as of one accustomed to ordering people about and to having his way. Somehow this doesn’t offend, perhaps because you expect it of a man with his red, mottled skin, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jaw. Old Peter finished his bit of buttered toast and quietly sipped his tea. “Yes?” he said. “What is it this time, Peter, a box for the Red Cross Matinee or a subscription to the new fund? Come on, out with it.” Peter screwed his single glass into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and examining the muffin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast. “Try again,” he remarked. “It’s worse than I thought.” The big man looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The other finished his tea and lay back in his chair. “Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants to sell her pictures.” Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into the fire. “She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!” Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a moment’s silence before the latter continued-- “Tom didn’t leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy; he’s at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn’t bear to part with them. Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It’s a bad time for selling, isn’t it, Stephen?” “The worst.” “What do you advise?” “I never advise; people must make up their minds for themselves.” Then, as though it were an after-thought: “What sort of pictures are they?”