of the easel as he inclined
the canvas at the most favourable angle, whilst the old man watched the
process fascinated.

The next moment Wyndham was holding the big lamp high in the air, and
carefully illumining the surface of the picture. For a moment everything
before his eyes was blurred, and he could see nothing at all; but he
stood his ground firmly, and gripped the lamp heroically. And before the
mist could clear he heard Mr. Robinson's voice rise in admiration.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the old man, his tone vibrating with an immense
conviction; and at that moment Wyndham received the picture full on his
vision and felt at once he had there a basis that could be worked up
into a splendid achievement.

"The crowd of strikers with their banner is the most life-like thing
I've ever seen. Wonderful!" Mr. Robinson gazed and gazed, his interest
overflowing into a running comment. "It's Hyde Park Corner! Why, of
course--there's the Duke of Wellington's house, and there's Lord
Rothschild's. Marvellous! What a variety of faces and characters! And
the old fellow there in the corner--what powerful features full of
despair! And the old woman with the red shawl--she hasn't had a morsel
of food, poor creature, for twenty-four hours, I'll wager. Why don't you
leave her alone, you old ruffian of a policeman! And then that
fashionable lady in her brougham with her over-fed poodle--what contempt
on her face for all these artizans! How real everything is--the
perspective is grand! Why, you could take a walk out there in the
distance! Marvellous! It doesn't need an art education to see that's a
work of genius."

Wyndham stood listening in elation, though, in his own perception of the
work just now, he felt as aloof from it as if it had sprung from
another's labours. His brain seemed emancipated from the tangle of its
old problems and all his old flounderings. And as Mr. Robinson continued
his admiring ejaculations, Wyndham put in now and again a word of
explanation, drawing attention to a point here and there, though this
was at first rather by way of soliloquy than conversation. But,
presently, as he moved the lamp to and fro, up and down, he warmed to
the occasion; even enlarging on his pet ideas, and pointing out where he
had failed to realise his own scheme and formula. Mr. Robinson listened,
wholly absorbed and fascinated by these new horizons that opened before
him. His respect and worship for art was contagious: Wyndham be