“Perhaps I have the more genuine title to your gratitude,” said Cheriton, amiably, “because, as far as Kendal is concerned, he is one of those undiscerning and sluggish fellows who always prefer to take some one else’s opinion rather than form one of their own. I told him you were the man to paint his daughter Priscilla, and he was only too glad to have my word for it. And I am by no means sure you are not.”
Jim Lascelles was at a loss to know how to express his sense of obligation, particularly as he could not help feeling that he did not merit such kindness.
“I wish now,” said he, “I hadn’t behaved so badly.”
“The worst of any sort of bad behavior,” said Cheriton, sententiously, “is that it carries such a heavy premium. But no matter. The chief thing is to behave well to my friend Kendal. Paint his daughter Priscilla to the best of your ability, and be careful to charge him five hundred guineas.”
Jim was staggered.
“Five hundred guineas!” said he. “Why, he will never pay it. He could get an absolute first rater for that sum.”
Cheriton smiled sagaciously.
“Doubtless he could,” said he, “and if my friend Kendal pays five hundred guineas he will consider he’s got one. When I come to examine your masterpiece on the wall of his gloomy and draughty dining-room in Yorkshire, I shall say, ‘Kendal, that picture of Priscilla appears to be an uncommonly sound piece of work.’ And he will say as proud as you please, ‘I should think it was, my dear fellow. That young chap Lascelles turned out absolutely first rate. He charged five hundred guineas for that picture. I am telling everybody.’”
Jim Lascelles found his good fortune a little difficult to accept. Further, he seemed to be rather troubled by it.
“I hope it is quite fair to Lord Kendal,” he said, “to charge him five hundred guineas for a picture I should be only too glad to paint for fifty?”