Cleland involuntarily glanced about him, then went over and politely examined the studies in clay.
"I've a back yard, too," said Grismer, "where I work in good weather. The light in here isn't particularly good."
For the wretchedness of his quarters he made no further apology; he spoke in his easy, amiable way and entirely without embarrassment, standing beside Cleland and moving with him from one study to another.
"They're just as clever as they can be," said Cleland, "—infernally clever, Grismer. Are they commissions?"
"I'm sorry to say they are not," replied Grismer with a smile.
"But a man who can do this work ought never to want for commissions," insisted Cleland.
"I'm exceedingly glad you like my work," returned Grismer pleasantly, "but as for orders——" he shrugged—"when I didn't need them they came to me. But, Cleland, when the world learns that a man needs anything it suddenly discovers that it doesn't need him! Isn't it funny," he added good-humouredly, "that prosperous talent is always in demand, always turning down work which it has no time to do; but the same talent on its uppers is universally under deep suspicion?"
He spoke lightly, impersonally, and without the slightest trace of bitterness. "Sit down and light one of your own cigarettes," he said. "I've only pipe-tobacco, and you probably wouldn't care for it."
Cleland seated himself in the depths of a big, threadbare arm-chair.
Grismer said with a smile: