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while he found himself cycling along the Embankment near Victoria, his fury exhausted. It had been a mistake to get involved with the art establishment in the first place, he decided. Dixon had been right: his style was not theirs. The prospect had been seductive at the time: a contract with one of the old-line, ultrarespectable galleries seemed to offer permanent security. It was a bad thing for a young painter. Perhaps it had affected his work.
    He should have stuck with the fringe galleries, the young rebels: places like the Sixty-Nine, which had been a tremendous revolutionary force for a couple of years before it went bust.
    His subconscious was directing him to the King′s Road, and he suddenly realized why. He had heard that Julian Black, a slight acquaintance from art school days, was opening a new gallery to be called the Black Gallery. Julian was a bright spark: iconoclastic, scornful of art world tradition, passionately interested in painting, although a hopeless painter himself.
    Peter braked to a stop outside a shop front. Its windows were daubed with whitewash, and a pile of planks lay on the sidewalk outside. A signwriter on a ladder was painting the name above the place. So far he had written: ″The Black Ga.″
    Peter parked the bike. Julian would be ideal, he decided. He would be looking for painters, and he would be thrilled to pull in someone as well-known as Peter Usher.
    The door was not locked, and Peter walked in over a paint-smeared tarpaulin. The walls of the large room had been painted white, and an electrician was fixing spotlights to the ceiling. At the far end a man was laying carpet over the concrete floor.
    Peter saw Julian immediately. He stood just inside the entrance, talking to a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. He wore a black velvet suit with a bow tie. His hair was earlobe length, neatly cut, and he was good-looking in a rather public-school sort of way.
    He turned around as Peter entered, an expression of polite welcome on his face, as if he was about to say ″Can I help you?″ His expression changed to recognition, and he said: ″God, Peter Usher! This is a surprise. Welcome to the Black Gallery!″
    They shook hands. Peter said: ″You′re looking prosperous.″
    ″A necessary illusion. But you′re doing well—my God, a house of your own, a wife and baby—you realize you ought to be starving in a garret?″ He laughed as he said it.
    Peter jerked an inquiry toward the woman.
    ″Ah, sorry,″ Julian said. ″Meet Samantha. You know the face.″
    The woman said: ″Hi.″
    ″Of course!″ Peter exclaimed. ″The actress! Delighted.″ He shook her hand. To Julian he said: ″Look, I wondered if you and I could talk business for a minute.″
    Julian looked puzzled and a little wary. ″Sure,″ he said.
    ″I must be off,″ Samantha said. ″See you soon.″
    Julian held the door for her, then came back and sat on a packing case. ″Okay, old friend: shoot.″
    ″I′ve left the Belgrave,″ Peter said. ″I′m looking around for a new place to hang my daubings. I think this might be it. Remember how well we worked together organizing the Rag Ball? I think we might be a good team again.″
    Julian frowned and looked at the window. ″You haven′t been selling well lately, Pete.″
    Peter threw up his hands. ″Oh, come on, Julian, you can′t turn me down! I′d be a scoop for you.″
    Julian put his hands on Peter′s shoulders. ″Let me explain something to you, old mate. I had twenty thousand pounds to start this gallery. You know how much I′ve spent already? Nineteen thousand. You know how many pictures I′ve bought with that? None.″
    ″What′s it all gone on?″
    ″Advance rent, furniture, decoration, staff, deposits on this, deposits on that, publicity. This is a hard business to get into, Pete. Now if I were to take you on, I′d have to give you decent space—not just because we′re friends, but also because otherwise it would get around that I was