XII
THE FAITH OF A SIREN
"At about ten o'clock this evening," Northcote
began, "as I was kneeling in front of the fire—there
was not any fire, by the way, as it costs too
much to afford one sometimes—in my miserable
dwelling at the top of Shepherd's Inn, the oldest
and most moribund of all the buildings in Fleet
Street, who should come climbing up to the topmost
story of the rickety and unwholesome stairs, under
which the rats have made their home for many
generations, but Mr. Whitcomb. And what do you
suppose was his business?"
"He wished to buy one of your pictures."
"Ah, no, I am not a painter."
"I thought there was a chance of it, since they say all very good painters are so poor. But perhaps you are a little too fierce, although I am told these impressionists are terrible men."
"The painting of pictures is one of the few things I have not attempted," said the young man, consenting to this interruption that he might sit for his own portrait.
"Well, I should not say you are a writer of fiction. They are so tame. Besides they are all nearly as rich as solicitors."
"Why not a poet?"
"Why not? although your fierceness would make you a dramatic, not a lyric one. Still it is impos-
