I come from the North.

I've painted a lot already--I couldn't be bothered with the Academy!' Watson turned and looked at the figure in the doorway.
'Won't you come in and sit down ?' The young man hesitated.

Then something in his look kindled as it fell on Watson's superb head, with its strong, tossed locks of ebon-black hair touched with grey, the penthouse brows, and the blue eyes beneath with their tragic force of expression.
Fenwick came in and shut the door.

Cuningham pushed him a chair, and Watson offered him a cigarette, which he somewhat doubtfully accepted.
His two hosts--men of the educated middle-class--divined at once that he was self-taught, and risen from the ranks.

Both Cuningham and Watson were shabbily dressed; but it was an artistic and metropolitan shabbiness.