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As he returned to his over-populated studio and surveyed anew the pictures of which Shepson had not offered to relieve him, he found himself wishing, not for Mungold's lack of scruples, for he believed him to be the most scrupulous of men, but for that happy mean of talent which so completely satisfied the artistic requirements of the inartistic.
He leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips, while Shepson paced the dirty floor or halted impatiently before an untouched canvas on the easel. "I tell you vat it is, Mr. Sdanwell, I can't make you out!" he lamented. "Last vinter you got a sdart that vould have kept most men going for years. After making dat hit vith Mrs.
For a moment Caspar was silent too; then, with a terrible smile: "My dear fellow, I congratulate you; Mungold will have to look to his laurels," he said. The shot delivered, he stalked away with his seven-league stride, and Kate moved tragically through the room in his wake. SHEPSON took up his hat with a despairing gesture. "Vell, I gif you up I gif you up!" he said.
Shepson, whose pronunciation became increasingly Semitic in moments of excitement. Stanwell stared. Called upon a few months previously to contribute to an exhibition of skits on well-known artists, he had used the photograph of a favourite music-hall "star" as the basis of a picture in the pseudo-historical style affected by the popular portrait-painters of the day.
"How could I? I didn't know if I wanted to paint her." "My goodness! Don't you know if you vant three thousand tollars?" Stanwell surveyed his cigarette. "No, I'm not sure I do," he said. Shepson flung out his hands. "Ask more den but do it quick!" he exclaimed. Left to himself, Stanwell stood in silent contemplation of the canvas on which the dealer had riveted his reproachful gaze.
Or an Arthur Schracker I can do Schracker as well as Mungold," he added, turning around a small canvas at which a paint-pot seemed to have been hurled with violence from a considerable distance. Shepson ignored the allusion to Corot, but screwed his eyes at the picture.
Stanwell, who had re-entered the studio, could not help drawing a sharp breath as he saw the picture-dealer pausing with tilted head before this portrait: it seemed, at one moment, so impossible that he should not be struck with it, at the next so incredible that he should be. Shepson cocked his parrot-eye at the canvas with a desultory "Vat's dat?" which sent a twinge through the young man.
"That? Oh a sketch of a young lady," stammered Stanwell, flushing at the imbecility of his reply. "It's Miss Arran, you know," he added, "the sister of my neighbour here, the sculptor." "Sgulpture? There's no market for modern sgulpture except tombstones," said Shepson disparagingly, passing on as if he included the sister's portrait in his condemnation of her brother's trade.
"Vell, vell, vell I'm not prepared to commit myself. Shoost let me take a look round, vill you?" "With the greatest pleasure and I'll give another shout for the coal." Stanwell went out on the landing, and Mr. Shepson, left to himself, began a meditative progress about the room. On an easel facing the improvised dais stood a canvas on which a young woman's head had been blocked in.
"Like business! Like a big order for a bortrait, Mr. Sdanwell dat's what it's like!" cried Shepson, swinging round on him. Stanwell's stare widened. "An order for me?" "Vy not? Accidents vill happen," said Shepson jocosely. "De fact is, Mrs. Archer Millington wants to be bainted you know her sdyle? Well, she prides herself on her likeness to little Gladys.
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