When I paused at last, Percival remarked, "Will you think me a Goth or a Vandal, Seyton, if I own to you that there seems to me a good deal of sameness in these subjects chosen by Italian artists: so many 'Madonnas' clad as Mary of Nazareth never was dressed; so many 'Saints' with haloes round their heads; so many 'Holy Families' and pictures of the 'Last Supper,' where none of the accessories convey to the mind a true idea of the actual scene. If I were an artist—"
"You are one," I interrupted; "if artists, like poets, are born—not made. With a little study of the Old Masters you would, I am certain, have made your mark amongst English painters."
"I doubt whether I should ever have earned butter to my bread," observed Percival. "I am too fond of striking out a line of my own. But I do intensely love the art; and am heartily glad that I have lost the use of my knee instead of that of my hand."
"I see that you paint still," said I, glancing at the palette. "Have you no difficulty in procuring models?"
"You think that my good old landlady, Mrs. Bond, in her black lace cap and false front, would hardly serve as one," laughed Percival. "She is the only specimen of the fair sex that I ever see; except, indeed, the red-haired maid of all work, who is only remarkable for the number of cups and glasses which she breaks. I have to do without models, Seyton; or rather to content myself with the forms which I see in my dreams."
"In your dreams?" I repeated enquiringly.
"I mean waking dreams," said my friend. "I often cannot get rest at night; or at least, till—
"'Yon dull steeple's drowsy chime—'
"has struck one or more of the small hours. So, making a virtue of necessity, I lie still, and amuse myself with my thoughts."
"I am so grieved—" I began; but Percival cut me short.