and liking, persisted. It
had sprung, originally--unexpectedly enough--from that loan made to
Fenwick in his days of stress and poverty; and there were many who
prophesied that it would come to an end with Fenwick's success.
Watson had no interest in and small tolerance for the prosperous. His
connexion with Cuningham, in spite of occasional letters, had dropped
long ago, ever since that clever Scotch painter had shown himself
finally possessed of the usual Scotch power to capture London and a
competence. But his liking for Fenwick had never wavered through all
the blare of Fenwick's success.

Was it that the older man with his melancholy Celtic instinct had
divined from the first that he and Fenwick were in truth of the same
race--the race of the [Greek: dusammoroi]--the ill-fated--those for
whom happiness is not written in the stars?

He sat staring at his companion, his eyes dreamily intent, taking
note of the restless depression of the man before him, and of the
disagreeable facts which emerged from his talk--declining reputation,
money difficulties, and--last and most serious--a new doubt of himself
and his powers, which Watson never remembered to have noticed in him
before.

'But you must have made a great deal of money!' he said to him once,
interrupting him.

Fenwick turned away uneasily.

'So I did. But there was the new house and studio. I have been trying
to sell the house. But it's a white elephant.'

'Building's the deuce,' said Watson, gloomily. 'It ruins everybody
from Louis Quatorze and Walter Scott downward. Have no barns--that's
my principle--and then you can't pull 'em down and build greater! But,
you know, it's all great nonsense, your talking like this! You're as
clever as ever--cleverer. You've only got to _paint_--and it'll be
all right. But, of course, if you will spend all your time in writing
letters to the papers, and pamphlets, and that kind of thing--well!--'

He shrugged his shoulders.

Fenwick took the remark good-temperedly. 'I've finished three large
pictures in eight months--if only somebody would buy 'em. And I'm in
Paris now'--he hesitated a moment--'on a painting job. I've promised
C----' (he named a well-known actor-manager in London) 'to help
him with the production of a new play! I never did such a thing
before--but--'

He looked up uncertainly, his colour rising.

'What?--scenery for _The Queen's Necklace?_ I've seen the puffs in the
papers. Why not? Hope he pays w