. Robinson smiled with gratification. "I more than return the
compliment, I can assure you."

"But pray go on," said Wyndham. "I believe you're a wizard. I must get
you to cast my horoscope."

Mr. Robinson raised his hands. "I don't think I could manage that," he
laughed. "I am only a quiet observer of my fellow-men. In the present
case it is very easy to see that yours is the face of a gentleman by
birth. There is a certain composure in your whole style. Whatever you
had to face, you would never have that appearance that men get in the
City--of wearing themselves out."

"Better to wear out than to rust out," said Wyndham meditatively. "I
rust out."

He was astonished at his own frankness. But there was a deep pleasure in
being natural for once, in throwing off the cover of sham and pretence
that had characterised his intercourse with his kind in the past. He did
not even consider it was strange that the person he should be baring
himself to so freely was one whose existence hitherto he had merely
deigned to notice. But nothing could exceed Mr. Robinson's amazement at
this last profession of his.

"Rust out!" The old man's eyes opened wide. "Why, you have done an
immense amount of work!" He waved his hand significantly towards the
army of canvasses ranged against the walls.

Wyndham affected to be impressed by the consideration. "Yes," he
admitted; "I have used up a considerable amount of material in my time,
I must admit." He had suddenly perceived that Mr. Robinson was largely
discounting his ingenuous frankness, and was really taking his
profession of failure, which, as it happened, he had thrown out in an
offhand way, as rather affectation than literal truth.

"And no doubt will be using up still larger amounts in the future." The
old man smiled and rose. "But I am taking up your time!"

"No, indeed," Wyndham assured him. "I hope you have quite recovered
now."

"Oh, quite," returned Mr. Robinson. "I had altogether forgotten the
little accident in the pleasure of our conversation."

There was a pause. "I am sorry there's no light," said Wyndham; "else I
should show you some of my work--that is, if you cared to see it."

The old man looked eager. "Couldn't you make the lamp do?" he exclaimed.
"I'm sure it would give me a very good idea of your pictures. But I am
presuming on your kindness."

"Oh, no," protested Wyndham.

He began to move about the studio, conscious of a new energy. Somebody
was here t