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'You're in this house, too? Have you anything you'd let me see? Fenwick, flushed and stammering, begged him to walk upstairs. Cuningham's puzzled impression was that he gave the invitation reluctantly, but could not make up his mind not to give it. They marched upstairs, Lord Findon and Cuningham behind.
Fenwick replied that he might some day, but had too many things on hand to think of it yet a while. Then with no explanation and a rather hasty hand he turned the page. Cuningham looked at him curiously. They were still busy with the sketch-book when a voice was heard on the stairs outside. 'Lord Findon, said Cunningham.
Fenwick started, made a half-movement as though to reclaim his property, and then withdrew his hand. Cuningham was looking at a charcoal study of a cottage interior. The round table of rude black oak was set for a meal, and a young woman was feeding a child in a pinafore who sat in a high-chair.
'And I suppose you know that you will find the Welbys there too? Fenwick made a startled movement. 'The Welbys? How did you hear that? 'I had my usual half-yearly letter from Cuningham yesterday. He's the fellow for telling you the news. Welby has begun a big picture of Marie Antoinette, at Trianon, and has taken a studio in Versailles for the winter.
Ten minutes before serving, pour into the boiling soup two dozen fine oysters, with half a pint of their liquor; let it come to a good boil and serve with well-boiled rice. La Cuisine Creole. From MISS FLORIDA CUNINGHAM, of South Carolina, Lady Manager. Two quarts of okra out very fine in three quarts of water, in which put a large shank of beef, and boil one hour.
'We'll talk it over. Well, good-bye. Don't forget old Dick. Fenwick walked on, fuming. Cuningham, he said to himself, was now the type of busy, pretentious mediocrity, the type which eternally keeps English art below the level of the Continent. 'I say one moment! Have you had any news of the Findons lately?
Cuningham walked on beside him, telling what he knew, Fenwick all the time dumbly vexed that this good-looking, prosperous fellow, this Academician in his new fur coat, breathing success and commissions, should know more of his best friend's doings than he.
Watson crossed over. He was a tall and splendid man, a 'black Celt' from Merionethshire, with coal-black hair, and eyes deeply sunken and lined, with fatigue or ill health. Beside him, his comrade, Philip Cuningham, had the air of a shrewd clerk or man of business with his light alertness of frame, his reddish hair, and sharp, small features.
Great luck he admitted all this for a nameless artist of the people, only six months in London. He owed it to Cuningham, and believed himself grateful. Cuningham was often at the Findons, made a point, indeed, of going. Was it to maintain his place with them, and to keep Fenwick under observation?
They discussed the personnel of the life-school Fenwick was attending, the opening of a new atelier in North London by a well-known Academician, the successes at the current 'Academy, the fame of certain leading artists. At least Cuningham talked; Fenwick's contributions were mostly monosyllabic; he seemed to be feeling his way.
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