Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do. The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his friends, but their wives and daughters. Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties duchesses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and journalists jostled one another. A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty; and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who interested him intensely. They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising lunch. "What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!" said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own reward." "I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer. "Well, what's your news?" "Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day ... deuce take him." "You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures." "They say he buys them by the dozen." "Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful ass, but his money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now, 'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop." "My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it after lunch." "And what will you call it?" "Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of Pansies.'" "'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to have a title like that for my new play, as simple" ... "Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?" "It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the manuscript with me. I have to read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock." "Are you pleased with it?" "My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never realises his ideal--but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I think of nothing but--the next one." "You are right--but, still, with your experience--you have been writing plays for years."