“It is, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim, with indifference.
“I hope the bargain I drove with you may not prove too hard,” said Cheriton, with an enigmatic smile that Jim Lascelles took not the least pains to fathom. “But if I may say so, your conduct in allowing me to drive such a bargain was curiously injudicious. For everybody tells me that your picture is magnificent.”
“I don’t think it matters,” said Jim, who was looking tired. “Although one is glad you like it, of course.”
“It must always be pleasant to the artist to have his work admired. My own comment upon your work is this. I hope, my dear fellow, you will be able to forgive its extravagance.”
As he spoke he gave the check to Jim Lascelles. The painter, however, paid no heed to it at first. His instinct was to crush it in his hands and fling it away, so repugnant was the piece of paper to the touch. Now that the time had come to part with the sole remaining solace he possessed, he felt unable to yield it.
This, however, was a weakness he must not indulge. He looked at the paper perfunctorily, and then he gave a little exclamation. The check was made out in his favor for ten thousand pounds.
“I don’t understand,” said Jim. “Is there not some mistake?”
“You must constrain your modesty a little, that is all,” said Cheriton. “People tell me it will be worth every penny of this sum to the next generation. It is pleasant sometimes to anticipate the verdict of posterity.”
Jim Lascelles did not know how to act or what to say. In his judgment this was the most Quixotic proceeding he had ever encountered.
“Really, Lord Cheriton,” he said, “I don’t feel that there are sufficient grounds upon which I can accept such a sum as this.”