“You are mistaken. It's the best trade going. There are gentlemen making their thousands a year by it.”
“Not in our parts, there bain't. Stop a bit. What be ye going to paint, sir? Housen, or folk?”
“Oh, hang it, not houses. Figures, landscapes.”
“Well, ye might just make shift to live at it, I suppose, with here and there a signboard. They are the best paid, our way: but, Lord bless ye, THEY wants headpiece. Well, sir, let me see your work. Then we'll talk further.”
“I'll go to work this afternoon,” said Falcon eagerly; then with affected surprise, “Bless me; I forgot. I have no palette, no canvas, no colors. You couldn't lend me a couple of sovereigns to buy them, could you?”
“Ay, sir; I could. But I woan't. I'll lend ye the things, though, if you have a mind to go with me and buy 'em.”
Falcon agreed, with a lofty smile; and the purchases were made.
Mr. Falcon painted a landscape or two out of his imagination. The dealers to whom he took them declined them; one advised the gentleman painter to color tea-boards. “That's your line,” said he.
“The world has no taste,” said the gentleman painter: “but it has got lots of vanity: I'll paint portraits.”
He did; and formidable ones: his portraits were amazingly like the people, and yet unlike men and women, especially about the face. One thing, he didn't trouble with lights and shades, but went slap at the features.