Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a heterogeneous collection of manuscripts and books; the latter were piled up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio upon it. “Now, here’s--a charming--etching.” He had a way of saying a word or two and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience of a listener. Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe. “The man--who did that--is one of our best line engravers--his name is Macmanus--he’s dreadfully hard up--look at this.” He held another before his visitor. “That’s by Plimsoll--a silver point--isn’t it a beautiful thing?” “Delightful,” replied Peter. “Well, do you know--Knott--that--” David’s pipe had gone out. He moved slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. “Do you know, Plimsoll is one of the most gifted”--he was holding a match to his pipe as he spoke--“gifted young artists in the country--and two days ago--he--was literally hungry--” David took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Peter to see the effect of his words. “It’s very sad, very”--Peter Knott’s tone was sympathetic--“but after all, they’re young; they could enlist, couldn’t they?” David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before answering. “They’re--neither of them--strong, Knott. They’d--be laid up in a week.” “Um--hard luck that,” Peter Knott agreed. “But what’s to be done? Everybody’s in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they’re just as badly hit, aren’t they?” “That depends--” David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. “The occasional--er--contributors--are having a bad time--but the regular journalists--the people on the staffs--are all right--of course I know cases--there’s a man called--er, let me see--I’ve got a letter from him somewhere--Wyatt’s his name--now, he’s--” David’s huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him. “By the way,” he remarked briskly, “I saw your friend Seaford yesterday.” David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name. “Frank Seaford--oh, did you? How is he? I haven’t seen him for some time--” “So I gathered,” Peter remarked dryly. “He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up.” “Ah! Ringsmith’s right. He’s a beautiful--artist. Did you--see--” Peter interrupted. “I think I’ve seen all Seaford’s work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He’s sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?” David stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Let me see--some time before the War--it must have been--more than a year ago.” “Not very grateful,” Peter could not help rapping out. David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.