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Updated: June 17, 2025
But, then, I can knock off a couple of pictures as soon as I have a little time, which will raise the wind again. I know what the public wants, bless it!" Rainham shrugged his shoulders rather wearily. "Poor public! If it wants art made in that spirit, it is worse than I believed." Lightmark looked askance at him, frowning a little, pulling at his long moustache.
Rainham at first was disconcerted, and then he began to feel bored. He fell into a semi-comatose state of contemplation, from which he was only aroused by the cadence on his ear of one of the most charming voices he had ever heard. So he characterized it, to Lightmark's amusement, when they were discussing their cigarettes and the jeune première in the interval between the acts.
And I am making money, though you mightn't think it." "I don't believe Mrs. Sylvester has thought about it at all," said Rainham doubtfully. "Eve is so young, and young artists are never looked on as marrying men. Take my advice and think about it." "You call her Eve, do you? Ah, well, I won't be jealous of you, old boy.
He was always talking about it. Well, I should like to see what he would have made of it!" As the clock struck five Rainham looked up with an air of relief, flipping negligently across the table the heap of papers which had occupied him since lunch-time. "We must go into this some other time, Bullen," he remarked with a certain petulance.
And, strange to say, though there were times when success seemed very hard to grasp, and when he was obliged to forestall quarter-day, and even to borrow money from Rainham when that bird of passage was within reach he sold sketches from time to time; he obtained commissions for portraits; and the editors occasionally read and retained his contributions.
It was on his first visit to Rainham, whom he had met abroad some years before, and with whom he had contracted an alliance that promised to be permanent, that Lightmark had decided his study should certainly be the river.
When at last Rainham came into the room, following, with his habitual half-timid air, the shambling figure of the painter Oswyn, it struck Lightmark that he had grown older, and that he had, as it were, assimilated some of the intimate disreputability of the place: it would no longer have been possible to single him out as a foreign unit in the circle, or to detect in his mental attitude any of the curiosity of the casual seeker after new impressions, the Philistine in Bohemia.
Rainham sighed, forced again to acknowledge his lower standing in the wisdom of the world. He would have given a great deal to be able to get up and go. "Then you don't want me to employ a detective, or to advertise, or or to make an appeal to the editor of the Outcry?" Mrs. Crichton seemed to welcome the opportunity afforded by this direct questioning.
An old lady with a beautiful, refined face and a wealth of white hair, which was still charming to look at, sat in an attitude full of comfortable indolence, with a small pug in her lap, who bounced at Rainham with a bark of friendly recognition. The old lady also looked up smiling.
By no means a perspicuous man, and to be approached perhaps charily; yet Rainham, as his acquaintance progressed, found himself from time to time brought up with a certain surprise, as he discovered, under all his savage cynicism, his overweening devotion to a depressing theory, a very real vein of refinement, of delicate mundane sensibility, revealed perhaps in a chance phrase or diffidence, or more often in some curiously fine touch to canvas of his rare, audacious brush.
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