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Updated: April 30, 2025
The latter at once assumed that Stanwell had been on the alert for him, and met the supposed advance by affably inviting himself into the studio. "May I come and take a look around, my dear fellow? I have been meaning to drop in for an age " Mungold always spoke with a girlish emphasis and effusiveness "but I have been so busy getting up Mrs.
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.
"So he can't be accused of doing what he does for money of sacrificing anything better." She turned on him with troubled eyes. "It was you who made me understand that, when Caspar used to make fun of him." Stanwell smiled. "I'm glad you still think me a better painter than Mungold. But isn't it hard that for that very reason I should starve in a hole?
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.
"And I don't say dey're wrong mind dat. I like a bretty picture myself. And I understand the way dey feel. Dey're villing to let Sargent take liberties vid them, because it's like being punched in de ribs by a King; but if anybody else baints them, they vant to look as sweet as an obituary." He turned earnestly to Stanwell. "The thing is to attract their notice.
She began to move away from him slowly, and he followed her in silence along the frozen path. When Stanwell re-entered his studio the dusk had fallen. He lit his lamp and rummaged out some writing-materials. Having found them, he wrote to Shepson to say that he could not paint Mrs. Van Orley, and did not care to accept any more orders for the present.
"Don't yet," protested Stanwell from the divan. It was winter again, and though the janitor had not forgotten the fire, the studio gave no other evidence of its master's increasing prosperity. If Stanwell spent his money it was not upon himself.
There was nothing repellent in Kate's borrowed didacticism, and if it sometimes bored Stanwell to hear her quote her brother, he was sure it would never bore him to be quoted by her himself; and there were moments when he felt he had nearly achieved that distinction. Caspar was not addicted to the visiting of art exhibitions.
Care sat on her usually tranquil features, and Stanwell, as he offered to go for the doctor, wished he could have caught in his picture the wide gloom of her brow. There was always a kind of Biblical breadth in the expression of her emotions, and today she suggested a text from Isaiah. "But you're not busy?" she hesitated; in the full voice which seemed tuned to a solemn rhetoric.
"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.
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