“It’s uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Sartwell, to say so many nice things about my efforts, and I assure you I appreciate them, for I don’t have too many encouragements—I don’t, I assure you. This is such a beastly materialistic world, don’t you know. Has my father got home yet?”
“Yes; he returned last night.”
“Ah, I didn’t know that. Terribly upset, I suppose?”
“A trifle worried.”
“Naturally he would be. Well, there’s nothing I can do for you then?”
“Nothing, unless you undertake the decoration of the new factory, and thus send it down to posterity with the Vatican frescoes. Still, that question won’t arise for a month or two yet.”
“Quite so. I’ll think about it. Well, if you need me, you know my address. A wire will bring me at any time.”
“It’s generous of you to stand ready to leap into the chasm in this way, but take my advice and stick to the studio. Nevertheless, I’ll remember, and let you know if a crisis arises with which I am unable to deal single-handed.”
“Do,” cried Barney, again shaking hands with good-natured effusion. “Well, good-by!”
He picked his way to the gates, and stepped into his waiting hansom, a well-merited feeling of having answered the stern call of duty cheering his heart as he drove away.