would buy.

'Why you talk like this, I'm sure I don't know,' Watson said, with an
impatient laugh. 'I'm always seeing your name in the papers. You have
a great reputation, and I don't expect the Academy matters to your
_clientele_.'

Fenwick shook his head. 'I haven't sold a picture for more than a
year--except a beastly portrait--one of the worst things I ever did.'

'That's bad,' said Watson. 'Of course that's my state--perennially!
But you're not used to it.'

Fenwick said nothing, and the delicate sensibility of the other
instantly divined that, friends as they were, the comparison with
himself had not been at all welcome to his companion. And, indeed, at
the time when Watson left England to begin the wandering life he had
been leading for some three years, it would have been nothing less
than grotesque. Fenwick was then triumphant, in what, it was supposed,
would be his 'first period'--that 'young man's success,' brilliant,
contested, noisy, from which, indeed, many roads lead, to many goals;
but with him, at that time, the omens were of the best. His pictures
were always among the events of the spring exhibitions; he had
gathered round him a group of enthusiastic pupils who worked in the
studio of the new house; and he had already received a good many
honours at the hands of foreign juries. He was known to be on the
threshold of the Academy, and to be making, besides, a good deal
of money. 'Society' had first admitted him as the _protege_ of Lord
Findon and the friend of Madame de Pastourelles, and was now ready to
amuse itself with him, independently, as a genius and an 'eccentric.'
He had many enemies; but so have all 'fighters.' The critics spoke
severely of certain radical defects in his work, due to insufficiency
of early training; defects which time might correct--or stereotype.
But the critics 'must be talking'; and the public, under the spell of
a new and daring talent, appeared to take no notice.

As these recollections passed through Watson's mind, another
expression showed itself in the hollow-cheeked, massive face. It was
the look of the visionary who sees in events the strange verification
of obscure instincts and divinations in which he himself perhaps
has only half-believed. He and Fenwick had been friends now--in some
respects, close friends--for a good many years. Of late, they had
met rarely, and neither of the men was a good correspondent. But the
friendship, the strong sense of congruity