“Of course I shall do so—­somehow,” he muttered at length.

“Have you any other way—­honest way—­except by working?”

“Very well, then, I’ll find work.  Real work.  Not that cursed daubing, which it turns my stomach to think of.”

Warburton paused a moment, then said kindly: 

“That’s the talk of a very sore and dazed man.  Before long, you’ll be yourself again, and you’ll go back to your painting with an appetite And the sooner you try the better.  I don’t particularly like dunning people for money, as I think you know, but, when you can pay that debt of yours, I shall be glad.  I’ve had a bit of bad luck since last we saw each other.”

Franks gazed in heavy-eyed wonder, uncertain whether to take this as a joke or not.

“Bad luck?  What sort of bad luck?”

“Why, neither on the turf nor at Monte Carlo.  But a speculation has gone wrong, and I’m adrift.  I shall have to leave this flat.  How I’m going to keep myself alive, I don’t know yet.  The Bristol affair is of course off.  I’m as good as penniless, and a hundred pounds or so will come very conveniently, whenever you can manage it.”

“Are you serious, Warburton?”

“Perfectly.”

“You’ve really lost everything?  You’ve got to leave this flat because you can’t afford it?”

“That, my boy, is the state of the case.”

“By Jove!  No wonder you didn’t see me as I came upstairs.  What the deuce!  You in Queer Street!  I never dreamt of such a thing as a possibility.  I’ve always thought of you as a flourishing capitalist —­sound as the Mansion House.  Why didn’t you begin by telling me this?  I’m about as miserable as a fellow can be, but I should never have bothered you with my miseries.—­Warburton in want of money?  Why, the idea is grotesque; I can’t get hold of it.  I came to you as men go to a bank.  Of course, I meant to pay it all, some day, but you were so generous and so rich, I never thought there would be any hurry.  I’m astounded—­I’m floored!”

With infinite satisfaction, Warburton saw the better man rising again in his friend, noted the change of countenance, of bearing, of tone.

“You see,” he said, with a nod and a smile, “that you’ve no choice but to finish ‘The Slummer!’”

Franks looked about him uneasily, fretfully.

“Either that—­or something else,” he muttered.

“No—­that!  It’ll bring you two or three hundred pounds without much delay.”

“I daresay it would.  But if you knew how I loathe and curse the very sight of the thing—­Why I haven’t burnt it I don’t know.”

“Probably,” said Will, “because in summer weather you take your gin and laudanum cold.”

This time the artist’s laugh was more genuine.