“No, I hate four-wheelers!” said Herbert. “Then why the devil do you always talk such rot? Hansom!”
“They don’t seem as united as the papers make out, anyway,” said Matt, in shame-faced evasion. He was ashamed of the lie, and ashamed of its not being true.
“No, there’s no esprit de corps among artists,” returned Rocks. “People always imagine there are schools. But in London there’s only the camaraderie of success and the camaraderie of unsuccess. Good-night.”
“Can’t we give you a lift?” said Herbert.
“No, thanks; I’m successful,” rejoined Rocks, and went off chuckling.
“I wish I was,” Herbert grumbled to Matt. “Fancy not being able to join that house-boat party, but to be stuck down in town by the Old Gentleman to paint Nebuchadnezzar. I wish I was you, Matt.”
Matt was on the point of consoling him by confessing he was on the brink of ruin, but that would have seemed like dunning a friend, to whom he owed so much, for the twenty-five pounds, so he postponed the inevitable explanation.
CHAPTER VI
THE OUTCAST
It was midsummer, and everybody who was anybody was pent in the sweltering city.
“The sort of weather to make one want to be a figure-model,” Herbert said, wearily, as he flicked finically at “Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar,” now well on its way to completion. “But it seems to suit the Old Gentleman. You might laugh, Matt. I’m too languid myself.”