In vain.

They fell back, naturally, into the talk of intimates, implying a thousand common memories and experiences; and Fenwick found himself left alone.
His mind burned with annoyance and self-disgust.

Why did he let these people intimidate him?
Why was he so ridiculously self-conscious ?--so incapable of holding his own?
He knew all about Arthur Welby; his name and fame were in all the studios.

The author of the picture of the year--in the opinion, at least, of the cultivated minority for whom rails and policemen were not the final arbiters of merit; glorified in the speeches at the Academy banquet; and already overwhelmed with more commissions than he could take--Welby should have been one of the best hated of men.

On the contrary, his mere temperament had drawn the teeth of that wild beast, Success.