"We'll see a lot of each other—eh, old man? So, you've stuck to the name of Vernon? I called you Clare, didn't I? Yes, I forgot. You told me you had taken the other name when you wrote a couple of years ago. I haven't heard from you since, except through the papers. You've made a hit, I understand. Doing well?"
"Rather! I've no cause to complain. And you, Jimmie? What's become of the art?"
"Chucked it, Jack—it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk—hired a studio—filled it with jimcrackery—got the best-looking models—wore a velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's shop—his place burnt down—I made him fork over. Then a deceased relative left me $150,000—said I deserved it for working so hard in Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."
Jack laughed heartily.
"Art never was much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."
"There will be another one some day, Jack—when this is gone. By the way, I met old Nevill last night—dined with him. And that reminds me—"
He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and exchanged a few commonplace words.
"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell. "Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven. Name your place."
"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.
As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell whispered at Jack's ear: