Rowlatt held up a detaining hand. "Just a couple of minutes, if you can spare them. I've nearly finished."
"All right, sir," said Barney Bill, limping across the yard. "Taking a picture of him?"
The artist nodded. Barney Bill looked over his shoulder. "By Gosh!" he cried in admiration. "By Gosh!"
"It has come out rather well, hasn't it?" said the artist, complacently.
"It's the living image of 'im," said Barney Bill.
"He tells me he's going up to London to seek his fortune," said Rowlatt, putting in the finishing touches.
"And his 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill, winking at Paul.
Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably. Instinct deprecated crude revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement. He felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence. Gutter-bred though he was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste. Of such a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been guilty. Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr. Rowlatt did not demand explanation.
"A young Japhet in search of a father. Well, I hope he'll find him. There's nothing like romance. Without it life is flat and dead. It's what atmosphere is to a picture."
"And onions to a stew," said Barney Bill.