"Painters surround themselves with a certain artistic luxury, as a means of inspiration," said Philip; "and then, Sir Benjamin," added he, laughing, "I don't see why all the good things of this life should be for the fools. Pray, take a seat."
"Thanks," said the patron of arts ... "I came" ...
"To arrange for a portrait?"
"No, no, not a portrait. Now I hope I shan't offend you by saying so, but I really don't care for portraits in oil. You may say what you like, but, to have a perfect likeness, give me a good coloured photograph. That's my tackle. For fancy portraits, very good, but otherwise" ...
"It sounds promising," thought Lorimer, who took up his position near the window, to enjoy the fun.
"The moment a process is discovered for photographing colour as well as lines and shade," continued Sir Benjamin, "nobody will want a painted portrait. For a portrait, you don't want imagination, you want truth, sir, real truth, an exact reproduction of the original."
"Some people prefer Madame Tussaud's Exhibition to the Louvre or the British Museum," said Lorimer.
The City alderman turned round and looked at him, and Philip introduced them to each other.
"Sir Benjamin Pond—Mr. Gerald Lorimer, our well-known playwright; no doubt you know him by reputation."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Pond, shaking hands with Lorimer. "I see by the papers that you are going to give us a new play. When I was a young man I wrote several plays myself, but I thought better of it, and, like a good Briton, I preferred to be useful to my country and go into business. No offence, I hope," added he, bursting into loud guffaws.