"So do I. Well, good-day, good-day," said Sir Benjamin, as Philip handed him his hat. "Very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I will let you know, as soon as another" ... "Vacancy occurs," suggested Lorimer. "That's it, that's it. Good-bye." Philip would have liked to give him a kick as well as his hat. He accompanied the alderman to the door and, returning to the studio, found Lorimer holding his sides with laughter. "Those people are the drawbacks of my profession, old man. They are enough to disgust you with it all. Great heavens, what a fool!" "I don't know about that; they buy pictures and pay cash down. One may safely say that but for the good inartistic British middle class, the fine arts would have to put up their shutters. Our upper classes have only praise and money for foreign works. Have we not musicians by the score, who have had to resort to Italian _noms de guerre_, to get a hearing in this country? Yes! I must say, I admire our middle classes. If it were not for our aldermen and county councillors, who have sufficient patriotism to get their portraits done in their own country, our English portraitists would end their careers in the workhouse. And, come, you must own that he was vastly amusing, the dear man; that the imposing big-wig of the City was simply killing." And the humour of the situation striking him afresh, Lorimer rolled on the sofa with laughter, and Dora, entering the studio at that moment, discovered him in a far from dignified position, his legs cutting figures in the air. "Oh, you've just come too late," said he, rising quickly; "he is gone." "Who is gone?" said Dora. "Why, the patron of the arts, Alderman Sir Benjamin Pond." And in a few words, Lorimer described the humorous little scene that had just taken place. Then, suddenly remembering his appointment, he looked at the clock. "By Jove! it's four o'clock! That is the time I had promised to be at the theatre.... I must fly!" "Are you off?" said Philip; "I'll go with you. I want some fresh air; I feel stifling, staying all day in this confounded studio. Don't worry, darling," said he to Dora, on seeing her look at the picture that he had begun almost to take a dislike to. "I will finish the picture when I come back. As I said, there is only an hour's work to do to it." "Where in the name of fortune have I put my manuscript?" exclaimed Lorimer. "Here it is on the table," said Dora. "Is there a woman with a past in it?" "A past?" said Lorimer. "Four pasts, and fine ones too. Quite enough to make up for all possible defects in the play. My dear Mrs. Grantham, I shall not put in appearance here again until I have written a play with an angel in it." "Never mind the angel," said Dora. "Have a real, true woman--that's good enough for anybody." "Oh, well, never mind; with all her pasts, you know, this woman has a great future." "I hope so, for your sake. Good luck." Philip and Lorimer got into a cab and went off waving their hands to Dora.