"Once or twice," she said. "And I never wish to again. You don't look as if you were much used to office work."
"No! I'm an artist; but times are hard with us. The present Government has driven all the money out of the country and no one buys pictures now; so I'm forced to turn my hand to something else."
"I love pictures. My father was an artist."
"Then we have something in common," the young man said. "Would you like to see my work? I love showing it to people who understand something about painting, and are not afraid to criticize."
"I should like to see it, immensely—though I won't presume to criticize."
"May I inquire your name?" the young man asked eagerly. "Mine is Shiel Davenport."
"And mine—Lilian Rosenberg," the girl said, with a smile.
"If I don't get the post, may I write to you sometimes, Miss Rosenberg, and ask you to my studio. I call it a studio, though it's really only an attic."
Lilian Rosenberg nodded. "I shall be delighted to come," she said. "I am afraid I am very unconventional."
There was no time for further conversation, as Hamar entered the room at that moment.