“You know what?” he exclaimed, seeming to look closely at a print on the wall.  “I’m going to be married before the end of the year.  On that point I’ve made up my mind.  I went yesterday to see a house at Fulham—­Mrs. Cross’s, by the bye, it’s to let at Michaelmas, rent forty-five.  All but settled that I shall take it.  Risk be hanged.  I’m going to make money.  What an ass I was to take that fellow’s first offer for ‘Sanctuary’!  It was low water with me, and I felt bilious.  Fifty guineas!  Your fault, a good deal, you know; you made me think worse of it than it deserved.  You’ll see; Blackstaffe’ll make a small fortune out of it; of course he has all the rights—­ idiot that I was!  Well, it’s too late to talk about that.—­And I say, old man, don’t take my growl too literally.  I don’t really mean that you were to blame.  I should be an ungrateful cur if I thought such a thing.”

“How’s ‘The Slummer’ getting on?” asked Warburton good-humouredly.

“Well, I was going to say that I shall have it finished in a few weeks.  If Blackstaffe wants ‘The Slummer’ he’ll have to pay for it.  Of course it must go to the Academy, and of course I shall keep all the rights—­unless Blackstaffe makes a really handsome offer.  Why, it ought to be worth five or six hundred to me at least.  And that would start us.  But I don’t care even if I only get half that, I shall be married all the same.  Rosamund has plenty of pluck.  I couldn’t ask her to start life on a pound a week—­about my average for the last two years; but with two or three hundred in hand, and a decent little house, like that of Mrs. Cross’s, at a reasonable rent —­well, we shall risk it.  I’m sick of waiting.  And it isn’t fair to a girl—­that’s my view.  Two years now; an engagement that lasts more than two years isn’t likely to come to much good.  You’ll think my behaviour pretty cool, on one point.  I don’t forget, you old usurer, that I owe you something more than a hundred pounds—­”

“Pooh!”

“Be poohed yourself!  But for you, I should have gone without dinner many a day; but for you, I should most likely have had to chuck painting altogether, and turn clerk or dock-labourer.  But let me stay in your debt a little longer, old man.  I can’t put off my marriage any longer, and just at first I shall want all the money I can lay my hands on.”

At this moment Mrs. Hopper entered with a lamp.  There was a pause in the conversation.  Franks lit a cigarette, and tried to sit still, but was very soon pacing the floor again.  A tumbler of whisky and soda reanimated his flagging talk.

“No!” he exclaimed.  “I’m not going to admit that ‘Sanctuary’ is cheap and sentimental, and all the rest of it.  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  People have got hold of the idea that if a thing is popular it must be bad art.  That’s all rot.  I’m going in for popularity.  Look here!  Suppose that’s what I was meant for?  What if it’s the best I have in me to do?  Shouldn’t I be a jackass if I scorned to make money by what, for me, was good work, and preferred to starve whilst I turned out pretentious stuff that was worth nothing from my point of view?”