Barnard Hope, commonly known as Barney, never quite got over his surprise at finding himself the son of James Hope and Euphemia his wife. James Hope, the junior member of the firm of Monkton & Hope, was an undersized man with a touch of baldness and an air of constant apology. He seemed to attach a mental string to every hesitating opinion he uttered, so that he might instantly pull it back if necessary. Meeting him on the street, one would take him for a very much bullied, very much underpaid clerk in the City. In his office he lived in fear of his manager; at home he lived in fear of his wife. The chief characteristic of his wife was uncompromising rigidity. She was a head taller than her husband, and when one met them on the way to church, he had the meek attitude of an unfortunate little boy who had been found out, and was being taken to church as a punishment by a just and indignant school-mistress. Mrs. Hope joined in none of the fashionable frivolities of Surbiton, where she lived. She had a mission and a duty towards her fellow-creatures—that is, towards those who were poor, and who could not very well resent her patronage. She had an idea that if all the well-to-do did their duty, the world would be a brighter and a better place—which is doubtful.

We may all be more or less grateful that Mrs. Hope has not been intrusted with the task of making this world over again; many interesting features would in that case have been eliminated. Hope himself was not an example of unmitigated happiness. The lady always had a number of protÉgÉes on hand, whom she afterwards discovered, as a usual thing, to be undeserving, which discovery caused them to be thrown over for new cases that in turn went bad. She was also constantly in demand by organizations needing members with long purses, but Mrs. Hope had a wonderful talent for managing which was not always recognized by those with whom she associated. This often led to trouble, older members claiming, as they vulgarly put it, that she wanted to run the whole show, and one outspoken person advised her to ameliorate the condition of her husband’s workmen, if she desired fit subjects for her efforts. This remark turned Mrs. Hope’s attention to the manufactory of Monkton & Hope, and led to her calling upon Mrs. Sartwell, in the neighbouring suburb of Wimbledon.

Now the son of these two dissimilar but estimable persons ought to have been a solemn prig, whereas he was in fact a boisterous cad, and thus does nature revel in unexpected surprises.

Barney was a broad-shouldered, good-natured giant, who towered over his shrinking father as the Monument towers over the nearest lamp-post. He was hail-fellow well-met, and could not shake hands like an ordinary mortal, but must bring down his great paw with an over-shoulder motion, as if he were throwing a cricket-ball, and, after the resounding whack of palm on palm, he would crunch the hand he held until its owner winced. Friends of the young fellow got into the habit, on meeting him, of placing their hands behind them and saying, “I’m quite well, thank you, Barney,” whereupon Barney laughed and smote them on the shoulder, which, though hard to bear, was the lesser of two evils.

“Boisterous brute,” his comrades said behind his back, but the energetic shoulder-blow or hand-clasp merely meant that Barney was very glad indeed to meet a friend, and to let the friend know that although he was very poor and Barney very rich this circumstance need not make the slightest difference between them.

It is possible that in the far West, or in the Australian bush, where muscle counts for something, there was a place yawning for Barney; perhaps there was a place for him even in London, but if there was, fate and Barney’s own inclinations removed him from it as far as possible. Barney was an artist; that is to say, he painted, or rather he put certain colours on canvas. For some years Barney had been the amazement of Julian’s school in Paris. He had a suite of rooms at the Grand Hotel, and he drove to the school in the Rue du Dragon every morning with a coachman and footman, the latter carrying Barney’s painting kit, while the former sat in a statuesque position on the box with his whip at the correct angle. Of course the art students were not going to stand that sort of thing, so they closed the gates one day and attacked the young man in a body. Barney at first thought it was fun, for he did not understand the language very well, and his good-natured roar sounded loud over the shrill cries of his antagonists. He reached for them one by one, placed them horizontally in a heap, then he rolled them over and over, flattening any student who attempted resurrection with a pat of his gigantic paw.

Whatever admiration they may have had for art at Julian’s, they certainly had a deep respect for muscle, and so left Barney alone after that. He invited them all to dinner at the Grand Hotel, and they came.

When his meteoric career as an art student in Paris was completed, he set himself up in an immense studio in Chelsea. The studio was furnished regardless of expense; there was everything in it that a studio ought to have—rich hangings from the East, tiger-skins from India, oriental rugs, ancient armour, easels of every pattern, luxurious lounges covered with stuffs from Persia.

“There,” cried Barney to Hurst Haldiman, with a grand sweep of his hand: “what do you think of that?”

Haldiman, one of the most talented students he had met in Paris, had now a garret of his own in London, where he painted when he got time, and did black and white work for the magazines and illustrated weeklies to keep himself in money. Barney had invited all his own old Parisian friends, one by one, to see his new quarters.

“Wonderful!” said Haldiman. “I venture to say there is not another studio in London like it.”

“That was my intention,” replied Barney. “They told me that Sir Richard Daubs had the finest studio in London. I said nothing, but went to work, and here I am. Have you ever seen Daubs’ studio, Hurst?”

“No. He is not so friendly as you are, Barney; he has never invited me.”

“Well, I’ll get you an invitation, and I want you to tell me candidly what you think of mine as compared with his.”

“Thanks, old man, but don’t trouble about the invitation for me. I haven’t any time to spare; merely came up here, you know, because we had been in Paris together. Daubs’ studio has one great advantage over many others—it contains a man who can paint.”

“Oh, yes, Haldiman, that’s all right. That’s the old Paris gag, you know. Ever since I heaped the boys one on top of the other, they have revenged themselves by saying I couldn’t paint; but you should be above that sort of thing, Haldiman, you really should. You see I’m a plain, straight-forward fellow, and I’ve got what is admitted to be the finest studio in London; but does that make any difference between me and my old friends? Not a bit of it, and the fact that you are sitting there proves it. I’m a born Bohemian; I despise riches, and my very best friends are fellows who haven’t a sou-markee. You know that, Haldiman.”

Haldiman lit another of Hope’s very excellent cigarettes. Barney imported them from Egypt himself, and said they were the same brand the Khedive smoked until one of the war correspondents informed him that the Khedive was not a smoker. Then Barney slightly varied the praise.

“Help yourself, dear boy. You’ll find they’re not half bad as cigarettes go. I get them direct, for you can’t trust these rascally importers. The Khedive is not a smoker himself, still he keeps nothing but the best for his guests, and this is the identical brand, as supplied to him.

“Now about this painting business,” continued Barney. “I venture to say that there was a time when Daubs was utterly unknown. Very well. Here also am I utterly unknown. The public won’t buy my pictures. I don’t conceal that fact. Why should I? I sent a picture to the Birmingham exhibition—I don’t say it was great, but I do claim it had individuality. They rejected it!”

“You amaze me!”

“I give you my word of honour they did, Haldiman. Birmingham! Think of that! A town that manufactures nails and gun-barrels.”

“Oh, art in England is going to the dogs,” said Haldiman, dejectedly.

“Now I don’t go so far as to say that. No; I laughed when my little effort came back, with regrets. I said I can bide my time, and I can. The people will come to me, Haldiman, you see if they don’t.”

“They do already, Barney—those who want to borrow money.”

“Now look here, Hurst, don’t throw my beastly cash in my teeth. Am I to blame if I am rich? Do I allow it to make a difference between man and man? We were talking about art, not money.”

“So we were. About your pictures. Go on.”

“I only wanted to point out to you that one must take things philosophically. Now if Birmingham had rejected one of your pictures it would have depressed you for a week.”

“Birmingham has got me on the other alley, Barney. It has accepted two of mine. Hence my gloom after what you have told me.”

Barney beamed on his visitor. Here was his argument clinched, but he repressed his desire to say, “I told you so”; still he could not allow the occasion to pass without improving it with a little judicious counsel.

“There you are, Haldiman, there you are. Does not the fact that you are accepted of Birmingham make you pause and think?”

“I’m staggered. It’s a knock-down blow. I’ll be into the Academy next.”

“Oh, not so bad as that. You see, Haldiman, you have talent of a certain kind——”

“Now, Barney, you lay it on too thick. I like flattery, of course, but it must be delicately done. You are gross in your praise.”

“I am not flattering you, Haldiman, ’pon my soul, I’m not. Most other fellows would be offended at what I’m going to say, but you’re a sensible man——”

“There you go again.”

“Listen to me. You have a certain talent—technique, perhaps, I should call it; a slight skill in technique.”

“Ah, that’s better. Now go on.”

“You got the praise and the prizes in Paris because of your technique, and that set you on the wrong tack. You are merely only doing well what hosts of other men have done well before you. You are down among the ruck. Now I strive after individuality.”

“You get it, Barney.”

“That’s not for me to say; anyhow, individuality and strength are what I want to see in my pictures, and there will some time come a critic with a mind unbiased enough to recognize these qualities. Then my day will have arrived. You mark my words, I shall found a school.”

“Like Julian’s?”

“No, like Whistler’s. You know very well what I mean. That’s your nasty way of showing you are offended because I’m frank enough to tell you the truth.”

“I suppose none of us likes the candid friend, however much we may pretend to. Well, I must be going. I’ve got some technique to do for one of the magazines.”

“Don’t go just yet. I have not half finished. Here is what I have to propose. Give up your room and come with me. You see the great advantage I have over you is that I can wait. If a magazine asked me to do black and white work for it, I would say, ‘No, go to those poor devils who must have work or starve. I’m working for the future, not for the present!’ That’s what I’d say. Now I’ll give you a bedroom, rent free, and a corner of this studio. It won’t cost you a penny—nor your board either. You can paint just what you like, and not what the public demands. Then you will be independent.”

“We have different views about things, Barney. That would seem to me the worst form of dependence. It is very generous of you, but utterly impracticable; besides, you haven’t thought of the danger of my becoming a mere copyist of you—a shadow of the new individualist. I couldn’t risk that, you know.”

“Better become the shadow of one man, than a shadow of many, which you are now.”

“Perhaps; but we each must hoe our own row in our own way. Good-by, Barney.”

Haldiman went down-stairs, not cheered as much as might have been expected by Hope’s overflowing good nature and generosity. He met Barney’s mother on the stairs, who gave him a head-to-foot glance of evident disapproval. She did not admire the set with whom her son had thrown in his lot, and feared their influence on him would not be beneficial.

“Oh, mater!” cried Barney, when she entered. “I did not expect you to-day. How did you find the place?”

His mother raised her lorgnette to her eyes and surveyed the room in silence.

“So this is the studio, Barnard,” she said, at last. “I don’t think much of it. Why is it all untidy like this?—or haven’t you had time to get it in order yet?”

“This is the kind of thing we artists go in for, mater. It is as much in order as it ever will be.”

“Then I don’t like it. Why could you not have had a man in to lay one carpet as it should be laid? These rugs, all scattered about in this careless way, trip one up so. What’s this old iron for?”

“That’s armour, mater.”

“Oh, is it? I don’t see how any one can do useful work in a room like this, still I suppose it is good enough to paint in. I found the place easily enough. Trust a neighbourhood to know where there is any extra foolishness going on. Of course you have been cheated in everything you bought. But that’s neither here nor there. I came to talk with you about the business.”

“What business, mater?”

“What business? The business, of course. Your father’s business and yours, for I hope the time will come when you will take more interest in it than you do now. The men, it seems, talk of going on strike.”

“Foolish beggars! What are they going to do that for, and what do you expect me to do? Not to talk to the men, I hope, for I detest the workingman. He’s an ass usually, otherwise he wouldn’t work for the wages he gets. Then he spends what he does make on bad beer and goes home and beats his wife. I can’t reason with the workingman, you know, mater.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can. I sometimes doubt whether you can reason with anybody. It is because the workingman labours that you can idle away your time in a place like this. There are many deserving characters among the working classes, although they are often difficult to find. The men have made-some demands which Sartwell, the manager, won’t even listen to. It seems to me that he is not treating them fairly. He should, at least, hear what they have to say, and if their demands do not cost the firm anything; he should grant them.”

“Mater,” cried the young man, with enthusiasm, “what a head for business you have!”

“I am of a family that became rich through having heads for business,” replied the lady, with justifiable pride. “Now, what I want you to do is to see this man Sartwell; he will pay attention to you because he knows that in time you will be his master, and so he will be civil to you.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Barney, doubtfully. “I imagine he thinks me rather an ass, you know.”

“Well, now is your opportunity for showing him you are not, if he has the impertinence to think such a thing. You must see him at his own house and not at the office—here is his address. Tell him to receive the men and make a compromise with them. He is to make concessions that are unimportant, and thus effect a compromise. A little tact is all that is required.”

“From me, or from Sartwell?”

“From both of you. I expect tact from you because you are my son.”

“But why doesn’t father talk to Sartwell? I know nothing of the business, and father does; it seems to be entirely in his line, don’t you know?”

“Your father, Barnard, is a timorous man, and he actually is afraid of his manager. He thinks it is interference and doesn’t want to meddle, so he says, as if a man were meddling in looking after his own affairs! He fears Sartwell will resign, but that kind of man knows where his own interest lies. I’ll risk his resigning, and I want you to see him at his house, for it is no use bothering your father about these things.”

“I don’t like the job, mater; it does look like interference.”

Mrs. Hope again raised her lorgnette by its long tortoise-shell handle, and once more surveyed the studio.

“This must have cost you a good deal of money, Barnard,” she said, impartially.

“It did,” admitted the young man.

“I suppose I shall soon have to be writing another cheque for you. For how much shall I make it?”

“It is such a pity to trouble you so often, mater,” replied the young man, “that perhaps we had better say three hundred.”

“Very well,” said his mother, rising, “I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton after having seen Sartwell at Wimbledon. It is on your way, you know.”

“All right, mater. But you mustn’t blame me if I don’t succeed. I’ll do my best, but Sartwell’s an awkward beggar to deal with.”

“All I ask of you, Barnard, is that you shall do your best,” answered the lady, rising.