“Oh, of course, of course,” said Mr. Bigger, “the details are most important.”
He ushered the little round man to the door. “Good morning. Good morning.” He was gone.
A tall, pale youth with side whiskers appeared in the doorway. His eyes were dark and melancholy; his expression, his general appearance, were romantic and at the same time a little pitiable. It was young Crowley, the painter.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Mr. Bigger. “What did you want to see me for?”
Mr. Crowley looked embarrassed, he hesitated. How he hated having to do this sort of thing! “The fact is,” he said at last, “I’m horribly short of money. I wondered if perhaps you wouldn’t mind—if it would be convenient to you—to pay me for that thing I did for you the other day. I’m awfully sorry to bother you like this.”
“Not at all, my dear fellow.” Mr. Bigger felt sorry for this wretched creature who didn’t know how to look after himself. Poor young Crowley was as helpless as a baby. “How much did we settle it was to be?”
“Twenty pounds, I think it was,” said Mr. Crowley timidly.
Mr. Bigger took out his pocket-book. “We’ll make it twenty-five,” he said.
“Oh no, really, I couldn’t. Thanks very much.” Mr. Crowley blushed like a girl. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to have a show of some of my landscapes, would you?” he asked, emboldened by Mr. Bigger’s air of benevolence.
“No, no. Nothing of your own.” Mr. Bigger shook his head inexorably.