"Oh, I understand it, Dick!" said Rainham. "But let me see the
picture while the light lasts."

"Oh, yes!" cried Lightmark eagerly. "We must not forget the
picture." He hoisted it up to a suitable light, and Rainham stood by
the bow-window, from which one almost obtained the point of view
which the artist had chosen, regarding it in a critical silence.

"What do you call it?" he asked at last.

"'The Gray River,'" said Lightmark; then a little impatiently: "But
how do you find it? Are you waiting for a tripod?"

"I don't think I shall tell you. By falling into personal criticism,
unless one is either dishonest or trivial, one runs the risk of
losing a friend."

"Oh, nonsense, man! It's not such a daub as that. I will risk your
candour."

Rainham shrugged his shoulder.

"If you will have it, Dick--only, don't think that I am to be coaxed
into compliments."

"_Is_ it bad?" asked Lightmark sceptically.

"On the contrary, it is surprisingly good. It's clever and pretty;
sure to be hung, sure to sell. Only you have come down a peg. The
sentiment about that river is very pretty, and that mist is