“One or two small things, which they won’t hang. This they will.”
“There can be no doubt of that; it will be the picture of the year. But let me see the others.”
One of these filled Kingcote with delight; he uttered an “Ah!” of pleasure. It was a little girl standing before a shop-window, and looking at an open illustrated paper which was exposed there. The subject was nothing, the pose and character of the child everything. Poor and ragged, she had lost for the moment sense of everything, but the rich and comfortable little maiden displayed in the coloured page; her look was envious, but had more of involuntary admiration. This too was a night-piece; the light came from the front of the shop, above the picture.
“The face is exquisite!” Kingcote said; “you have made great strides this last halfyear.”
The artist uttered a “h’m,” and no more.
“So you got tired of your cottage,” he said, seating himself, and taking up his pencil again.
“You know I was that, long since. But a different reason brought me back to London.”
He explained his situation.
“And what shall you do?” Gabriel asked, simply.
“It is impossible to say. I must find work of some kind.”