"Two hundred only. A mere trifle. And now he refuses to advance any more until the Picture is completed. Some enemy, some jealous brother artist, must have corrupted his mind."
"My case, too. I asked for a simple fifty pounds. It is the end of May, and the country would be delightful if one could go there. I have already drawn four or five cheques of fifty each, on account of the Epic. He says, this mercenary and mechanical patron, that he will not lend me any more until the Poem is brought to him finished. Some carping critic has been talking to him."
"How much of the Poem is finished?"
"How much of the Picture is done?"
The questions were asked simultaneously, but no answer was returned by either.
Then each sat for a few moments in gloomy silence.
"The end of May," murmured Humphrey. "We have to be ready by the beginning of October. June—July—only four months. My painting is designed for many hundreds of figures. Your poem for—how many lines, brother?"
"Twenty cantos of about five hundred lines each."
"Twenty times five hundred is ten thousand."
Then they relapsed into silence again.