In a few minutes Watson resented his attitude as offensive; he fell into a cold silence; Fenwick's half-concealed contempt threw him fiercely on his friend's side.
'Well, I've done the trick!' said Cuningham, coming out jauntily, his hands in his trousers pockets; then, with a jerk of the head towards the studio, and a lowered voice, 'He's writing the cheque.' 'How much ?' said Watson, without turning his head.

Fenwick thought it decent to walk away, but he could not prevent himself from listening.
It seemed to him that he heard the words 'Two hundred and fifty,' but he could not be sure.

What a price!--for such a thing.

His own blood ran warm and quick.
As he stood at the further end of the little terrace ruminating, Cuningham touched him on the shoulder.
'I say, have you got anything to show upstairs ?' Fenwick turned to see in the sparkling eyes and confident bearing of the Scotchman, success writ large, expressing itself in an impulse of generosity.
'Yes--I've got a picture nearly finished.' 'Come and be introduced to Findon.

He's a crank--but a good sort--lots of money--thinks he knows everything about art--they all do--give him his head when he talks.' Fenwick nodded, and followed Cuningham back to the studio, where Lord Findon was now examining Watson's picture with no assistance whatever from the artist, who seemed to have been struck with dumbness.
Fenwick was introduced to a remarkably tall and handsome man, with the bearing of a sportsman or a soldier, who greeted him with a cordial shake of the hand, and a look of scrutiny so human and kindly that the very sharp curiosity which was in truth the foundation of it passed without offence.