'Sweet son of liberty,' said the new-comer, 'how fares it?'

It was Johnston Smyth, more airily shabby than ever. Over his head he
held an umbrella in such disrepair that the material hung from the ribs
in shreds. A profuse black tie hid any sign of shirt, and both the
legs of his trousers and the sleeves of his coat seemed to have shrunk
considerably with the damp.

'How are you?' said Selwyn, shaking hands.

'Temperamentally on tap; artistically beyond question; gastronomically
unsatisfied.' At this concise statement of his condition, Smyth took
off his hat, gazed at it as if he had been previously unaware of its
existence, and replaced it on the very back of his head.

'Things are not going too well, then?' said Selwyn, glancing anxiously
towards Durwent, and wondering how he could get rid of the garrulous
artist.

'Not going well?' Smyth straightened his right leg and relaxed the
left one. 'In the last three weeks a pair of pyjamas, my other coat,
two borrowed umbrellas, and a set of cuff-links have gone. If things
go much better I shall have to live in a tub like Diogenes. But--do
the honours, Selwyn.'

'I beg your pardon,' said the American. 'Mr--Mr. Sherwood,' he went
on, taking the first name that came to his lips, 'allow me to introduce
Mr. Johnston Smyth.'

'How are you?' said the artist, making an elaborate bow and seizing the
other's hand.

'As you may have gathered from my costume and the ventilated condition
of my umbrella, I am not in that state of funds which lends
tranquillity to the mind and a glow of contentment to the bosom. Yet
you see before you a man--if I may be permitted a sporting
expression--who has set the pace to the artists of England. I am glad
to know you. Our mutual friend from Old Glory has done himself proud.'

With which flourish Smyth left off shaking hands and closed his
umbrella, immediately opening it and putting it up again. Dick Durwent
replaced his hands in his pockets, and Selwyn heard his quivering
breath as he shivered with cold.

'However,' went on the loquacious artist, 'though my art has been
heralded as a triumph, though it has filled columns of the press,
though my admirers can be found on every page of the directory, I can
only say, like our ancient enemy across the Channel after Austerlitz,
"Another such victory and I am ruined!" . . . Selwyn, shall we indulge
in the erstwhile drop?'

'Have you a flask?' broke in Durwent, his dull eyes light