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a tall, spare man with half-lens glasses and the air of a general practitioner. He shook hands without smiling, and briskly asked Peter to sit down.
    He leaned his elbows on the antique desk and said: ″Well, what can I do for you?″
    Peter had been rehearsing the speech all the way up on his bicycle. He had no doubt that Dixon would take him on, but he would be careful not to offend the chap, anyway. He said: ″I haven′t been happy with the way the Belgrave is handling me for some time. I wonder whether you would like to show my work.″
    Dixon raised his eyebrows. ″That′s a bit sudden, isn′t it?″
    ″It may seem so, but as I say, it′s been simmering for a while.″
    ″Fair enough. Let′s see, what have you done recently?″
    Peter wondered briefly whether Dixon had heard about the row last night. If he had, he was not saying anything about it. Peter said: ″ Brown Line went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty.″ It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months.
    ″Fine,″ Dixon said. ″Now what has been the trouble at the Belgrave?″
    ″I′m not sure,″ Peter replied truthfully. ″I′m a painter, not a dealer. But they don′t seem to be moving my work at all.″
    ″Hmm.″ Dixon seemed to be thinking: playing hard to get, Peter thought. At last he said: ″Well, Mr. Usher, I′m afraid I don′t think we can fit you into our roster. A pity.″
    Peter stared at him, flabbergasted. ″What do you mean, can′t fit me in? Two years ago every gallery in London wanted me!″ He pushed his long hair back from his face. ″Christ! You can′t turn me down!″
    Dixon looked nervous, as if fearing the young painter′s rage. ″My view is that you have been overpriced for some time,″ he said curtly. ″I think you would be as dissatisfied with us as you are with the Belgrave, because the problem is basically not with the gallery but with your work. In time its value will rise again, but at present few of your canvases deserve to fetch more than three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I′m sorry, but that′s my decision.″
    Usher became intense, almost pleading. ″Listen, if you turn me down, I may have to start painting houses. Don′t you see—I must have a gallery!″
    ″You will survive, Mr. Usher. In fact you′ll do very well. In ten years′ time you will be England′s top painter.″
    ″Then why won′t you take me on?″
    Dixon sighed impatiently. He found the conversation extremely distasteful. ″We′re not your sort of gallery at the moment. As you know, we deal mainly in late-nineteenth-century painting, and sculptures. We have only two living artists under contract to our galleries, and they are both well-established. Furthermore, our style is not yours.″
    ″What the hell does that mean?″
    Dixon stood up. ″Mr. Usher, I have tried to turn you down politely, and I have tried to explain my position reasonably, without harsh words or undue bluntness—more courtesy, I feel sure, than you would grant me. But you force me to be utterly frank. Last night you created a terribly embarrassing scene at the Belgrave. You insulted its owner and scandalized his guests. I do not want that kind of scene at Dixon′s. And now I bid you good day.″
    Peter stood up, his head thrust aggressively forward. He started to speak, hesitated, then turned on his heel and left.
    He strode along the corridor, through the foyer, and out into the street. He climbed onto his bicycle and sat on the saddle, looking up at the windows above.
    He shouted: ″And fuck you, too!″ Then he cycled away.
    He vented his rage on the pedals, kicking down viciously and building up speed. He ignored traffic lights, one-way signs, and bus lanes. At junctions he swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, looking distinctly manic with his hair flowing in the wind behind him, his long beard, and his businessman′s suit.
    After a