Fenwick turned away uneasily.
'So I did. But there was the new house and studio. I have been trying to sell the house. But it's a white elephant.'
'Building's the deuce,' said Watson, gloomily. 'It ruins everybody from Louis Quatorze and Walter Scott downward. Have no barns—that's my principle—and then you can't pull 'em down and build greater! But, you know, it's all great nonsense, your talking like this! You're as clever as ever—cleverer. You've only got to paint—and it'll be all right. But, of course, if you will spend all your time in writing letters to the papers, and pamphlets, and that kind of thing—well!—'
He shrugged his shoulders.
Fenwick took the remark good-temperedly. 'I've finished three large pictures in eight months—if only somebody would buy 'em. And I'm in Paris now'—he hesitated a moment—'on a painting job. I've promised C——' (he named a well-known actor-manager in London) 'to help him with the production of a new play! I never did such a thing before—but—'
He looked up uncertainly, his colour rising.
'What?—scenery for The Queen's Necklace? I've seen the puffs in the papers. Why not? Hope he pays well. Then you're going to Versailles, of course?'
Fenwick replied that he had taken some rooms at the Hôtel des Réservoirs and must make some sketches in the palace; also in the park, and the Trianon garden. Then he rose abruptly.
'Well, and what have you been after?'
'The same old machines,' said Watson, tranquilly, pointing to a couple of large canvases. 'My subjects are no gayer than they used to be. Except that—ah, yes—I forgot—I had a return upon myself this spring—and set to work on some Bacchantes.' He stopped, and picked up a canvas which was standing with its face to the wall.