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He had a more unselfish motive. For some time past, by hints dropped and tentative remarks thrown out, he had been made aware that Mrs Rossiter greatly desired him to paint her daughter's portrait: and until now he had always turned to these remarks and hints a deaf ear. Mrs Rossiter's mother's heart wanted, he knew, to get the portrait for nothing: and, while love is love and all that, he had the artist's dislike for not collecting all that was coming to him. Ignatius Mulliner, the man, might entertain the idea of pleasing the girl he worshipped by painting her on the nod, but Ignatius Mulliner, the artist, had his schedule of prices. And until to-day it was the second Ignatius Mulliner who had said the deciding word.
     
This afternoon, however, everything was changed. In a short but moving speech he informed Hermione's mother that the one wish of his life was to paint her daughter's portrait; that for so great a privilege he would not dream of charging a fee; and that if she would call at the studio on the morrow, bringing Hermione with her, he would put the job in hand right away.
     
In fact, he very nearly offered to paint another portrait of Mrs Rossiter herself, in evening dress with her Belgian griffon. He contrived, however, to hold the fatal words back: and it was perhaps the recollection of this belated prudence which gave him, as he stood on the pavement outside the house after the interview, a sense of having failed to be as altruistic as he might have been.
     
Stricken with remorse, he decided to look up good old Cyprian and ask him to come to the studio to-morrow and criticize his Academy picture. After that, he would find dear old George and press a little money on him. Ten minutes later, he was in Cyprian's sitting-room.
     
'One wishes what?' asked Cyprian incredulously.
     
'One wishes,' repeated Ignatius, 'that you would come round to-morrow morning and have a look at one's Academy picture and give one a hint or two about it.'
     
'Is one really serious?' cried Cyprian, his eyes beginning to gleam. It was seldom that he received invitations of this kind. He had, indeed, been thrown out of more studios for butting in and giving artists a hint or two about their pictures than any other art-critic in Chelsea.
     
'One is perfectly serious,' Ignatius assured him. 'One feels that an opinion from an expert will be invaluable.'
     
'Then one will be there at eleven sharp,' said Cyprian, 'without fail.'
     
Ignatius wrung his hand warmly, and hurried off to the Goat and Bottle to find George.
     
'George,' he said, 'George, my dear old chap; I passed a sleepless night last night, wondering if you had all the money you require. The fear that you might have run short seemed to go through me like a knife. Call on me for as much as you need.'
     
George's face was partially obscured by a tankard. At these words, his eyes, bulging above the pewter, took on a sudden expression of acute horror. He lowered the tankard, ashen to the lips, and raised his right hand.
     
'This,' he said in a shaking voice, 'is the end. From this moment I go off the stuff. Yes, you have seen George Plimsoll Rossiter drink his last mild-and-bitter. I am not a nervous man, but I know when I'm licked. And when it comes to a fellow's ears going . . .'
     
Ignatius patted his arm affectionately.
     
'Your ears have not gone, George,' he said. 'They are still there.'
     
And so, indeed, they were, as large and red as ever. But George was not to be comforted.
     
'I mean when a fellow thinks he hears things . . . I give you my honest word, old man – I solemnly assure you that I could have sworn I heard you voluntarily offer me money.'
     
'But I did.'
     
'You did?'
     
'Certainly.'
     
'You mean you definitely – literally – without any sort of prompting on my part – without my so much as saying a word to indicate that I could do with a small loan till Friday week – absolutely, positively offered to lend me money?'
     
'I did.'
     
George