“I hear girls talking of effect, and atmosphere, and technique, but there is something spiritual in Art, and in the work of great masters; it seems such a waste of a precious gift, when they die, and their marvellous power is lost to the world for ever. Oh, if they could only bequeath their faculties as they bequeath their riches! How grateful I should be for a tiny legacy—even for a crumb.”
“And so should I,” agreed Rose, “the smallest contribution thankfully received; unfortunately there is no use in wishing. We are just a dull, plodding, stupid couple, who have exhausted our resources, and the patience of our—friends. I begin to see myself returning to ‘the Ditch,’ as mother’s help to Mrs. Gull, the baker’s wife; there I shall at least be sure of a roof and bread. Well, there is no use in looking at the worst side of a picture. To-morrow I intend to make a fresh start; I shall copy your figure, and if you like you may borrow my nose, for the miniature. It is nice and straight—my best feature.”
“Really, Rose, you are wonderful!” exclaimed her sister. “What spirits you have!—no matter what happens, they never seem to sink.”
“I hope we shall both swim—some day,” she answered, rising as she spoke. “And now that my petticoats and stockings are dry, I am going to bed.”
“’Pon my word—eh—it’s really—er—yes, quite good!” exclaimed the Art Editor. “Comes all right this time, Miss Hay; it only wanted a little pains, you see! You were getting slack. This is one of your best drawings—so much life in it—the anatomy correct—excellent. Did anyone help you?” and he gave her a sharp glance over his glasses.
“Oh no, indeed,” she replied eagerly, “it is entirely my own work.”
“Is that so?” he answered dubiously. “I must confess that people would hardly credit that this lifeless performance,” drawing out a former sketch, “and this,” tapping her latest production, “were the work of the same hand. One is the well-meant attempt of an amateur, the other is the—ah, I will not flatter you to your face—it is capital.”
“I am so glad you are pleased,” said Rose, with a tinge of colour in her pale face—praise and encouragement were indeed rare. “Am I to do the remainder?” she added timidly.
“Oh yes, but in your later style; you may always depend upon commissions if you stick to that. I expect you would like a little cheque,” and he sat down and scribbled one for twenty-five shillings; then, as he handed it to her, he cleared his throat, and said, “To be quite frank, this was intended to have been your last payment—but now that you have shown what you can accomplish, when you try, I hope we shall continue to do business together. It,” and he smiled, “was rather a narrow squeak. I cannot think why you have hitherto hid your light under a bushel. This sketch,” once more examining it, “is—er—really quite good.”