"Do. Tell him to come back for you in half-an-hour. That is he, I suppose, on the header-board."
Charles went quickly down the little path to the tent.
"O, Reggie," he said. "The fat white man has come and bought my picture. Absolutely bought it. It's real: I'm just beginning to believe it."
Reggie stared for a moment. Then, for he had a poor opinion of his brother's business capacities, "How much?" he demanded.
"Sixty pounds. Not shillings, pounds. And he wants to talk to me now, so come back for me in half-an-hour. He says I can paint, and somehow I think he knows."
"Bless his fat face," said Reggie. "We'll let him have it at his own price. Anything for the model? I think the model deserves something."
"He shall get it," said Charles.
Reggie caught hold of his brother by the shoulders, and danced him round in three wild capering circles.
Arthur Craddock had sat himself down on the steps that led to the header-board waiting for Charles' return. He had turned the picture round, so that he saw it in a less perplexing light, and found that he had no need to reconsider his previous conclusions about it. It was brimful of lusty talent, and there seemed to him to be a hint of something more transcendent than talent. There was a really original note in it: it had a style of its own, not a style of others, and though he felt sure that the artist must have studied at Bonnart's in Paris, there was something about the drawing of it which had never been taught in that admirable atelier. And the artist was so young: there was no telling at what he might not arrive. Craddock had a true reverence for genius, and he suspected genius here. He also had a very keen appreciation of advantageous financial transactions, which he expected might be gratified before long. For both these reasons he awaited Charles' return with impatience. He was prepared to make his proposal to him at once, if necessary, but he felt he would prefer to see more of his work first.