the sweetest, the never-to-be-forgotten ones – alas, never to be enjoyed again, perhaps!"
"I will see that they are not," said Philip.
"Oh, Philip, tell me that you are happy now, that the ambition of your life will be your work, your art, not money."
"Certainly, darling. But, let me tell you also, honestly, that the greatest pleasure in connection with my days of poverty" …
"Well?"
"Is that I am poor no longer."
"You incorrigible cynic."
Dora looked at Philip for some moments.
"Oh, Philip," she cried, "say that you are only teasing me, that you don't mean a word of it."
"Yes, dear, I am only teasing you," said Philip indifferently. "Now, little wife, you must be quiet and let me work, or this portrait will never be finished to-day."
Philip looked at the clock, then at his watch. It was half-past one. A ring was heard at the studio door. He shivered with excitement. "It is perhaps de Lussac," he said to himself.
"I hope it is not that bothering Sir Benjamin coming to disturb me," he said to Dora.
Gerald Lorimer, for whom there was always a cover laid at Philip's table, entered the studio.
"Why, it's Lorimer," exclaimed Philip, rising, and going to shake hands with his friend. "I am as hungry as a hound; I'll go and wash my hands, and we'll have lunch at once."
"Well, and how goes the portrait?" said Lorimer.
"My dear fellow," replied Philip, "I shall have to take a studio a mile or two off, so that my wife will not be able to come and chatter and hinder me from working. Look at it: here have I been for the past two hours in front of this easel, and done half an hour's painting at most."
Philip ran upstairs to wash and change his coat, and quickly rejoined Dora and Lorimer in the dining-room.
V
THE DRAMATIC AUTHOR AND THE PATRON OF ARTS
Gerald Lorimer, although still quite young, was already a dramatist of some note. He was gaiety and insouciance personified. A genial philosopher, witty, sometimes a cynic, but always a kindly one, indulgent to the shortcomings of humanity, he looked at life as a comedy, which he witnessed from the most comfortable of orchestra stalls. The world amused him and supplied him with types for study. He enjoyed robust health, the joy of living was written all over his face, and, wherever he went, he brought an atmosphere of contagious irresistible gaiety. He was a handsome man, distinguished-looking, and fairly well off. When asked why he did not marry, he answered, "Thanks, I prefer to study from afar; one observes better at a distance."
He had a little house in Philip's neighbourhood, that was the envy of all who were privileged to enter its doors. Women thought it impudence of a man to dare to install himself thus, and so prove urbi et orbi that it is not absolutely necessary to have a woman under one's roof to enjoy the most perfect comfort. And yet, when asked why Lorimer did not marry, all that women had to say, was, "No inclination, I suppose."
Women adore parties given by bachelors. They went in crowds, when Lorimer asked them to an "At home" or a garden-party. They took free advantage of the permission he gave them to wander over the house, and examined all its corners. Every bachelor's house interests women and arouses their curiosity. They pried into every nook and cranny, in the hope of bringing to light a mystery, perchance some woman's portrait – Heaven knows what, perhaps a hairpin on the carpet. Wherever they looked, everything was ease, comfort, and liberty; and they arrived at the conclusion, that one may be a bachelor and yet live happily, but consoled themselves with the thought that nobody has found the way to live a bachelor and die happily. Lorimer's house was arranged with taste, in the oriental style. The drawing-room, dining-room, library, and smoking-room formed a delightful suite of rooms.
"You see," said some woman, "nothing but men-servants – a French cook, a German valet: our host must be a woman-hater."
"I do not see that that follows, dear," said another one: "men are more discreet and less gossiping than women, and I warrant that this house has been the scene of many an interesting little tête-à-tête."
Each one had her own opinion; none of them really knew anything about it. Lorimer had never given anyone occasion to gossip about him; he was English and a gentleman, therefore discreet. The French boast often of things they have never done; the English never boast of what they do. The latter are right. Besides, a bachelor, in giving his house a reputation of perfect respectability, can thus invite to it not only his friends, but their wives and daughters.
Lorimer knew all London: the club world, the aristocratic world, the artistic world of Chelsea and St. John's Wood; and at his parties duchesses, actresses, cabinet ministers, painters, writers, actors, and journalists jostled one another.
A friend of men, because of his good-fellowship, frankness, and loyalty; and of women, by reason of his wit, his discretion, and his charming manners, Lorimer was received everywhere with open arms. He could have dined and lunched out every day, if this had been the programme of his existence. On the contrary, he worked hard, went out little, knew everybody, but was the intimate acquaintance of but few, and amongst these were numbered Philip and Dora, whom he liked exceedingly and who interested him intensely.
They sat down in merry mood and did honour to the simple and appetising lunch.
"What a pity you did not turn up a few moments earlier, my dear fellow!" said Philip to Lorimer. "You would have been edified, and have heard Dora holding forth against wealth. The contempt my wife has for money is sublime. She is of the opinion that art, like virtue, should be its own reward."
"I'm sorry to say it's often the only one art gets," said Lorimer. "Well, what's your news?"
"Haven't any," said Philip. "Oh yes, though," added he, "Sir Benjamin Pond threatens to pay us a visit to-day … deuce take him."
"You're in luck; he spends a mint of money in pictures."
"They say he buys them by the dozen."
"Hum," said Lorimer, "by the square yard. He's an awful ass, but his money is as good as that of the cleverest. When I said just now, 'What's your news?' I meant from the workshop."
"My wife's portrait will be finished in an hour's time; you shall see it after lunch."
"And what will you call it?"
"Oh, simply, 'Portrait of Mrs. Grantham,' or perhaps, 'A Bunch of Pansies.'"
"'A Bunch of Pansies,' that's charming," said Lorimer; "I should like to have a title like that for my new play, as simple" …
"Oh, by-the-bye, how about your play, is it getting on?"
"It's finished, my dear fellow. I have the manuscript with me. I have to read it to the company at the Queen's Theatre to-day at four o'clock."
"Are you pleased with it?"
"My dear friend, when a man has the artistic temperament, his work never realises his ideal – but, thank goodness, when I have finished a play, I think of nothing but – the next one."
"You are right – but, still, with your experience – you have been writing plays for years."
"I
