“What impertinence!” Miss Cameron remarks; “talk about the tyranny of European courts! Here you are, an orphan, without a relative in the world to restrain you, and these people fancy they own you, and can control your liberty just because they have furnished you with funds which they ought to know will be returned to them.”
“But there is a moral obligation,” Miss Paterson replied. “I shall send them back every penny of their money as soon as possible, and I shall always feel a debt of gratitude which no pecuniary remuneration can cover.”
“Little saint!” Miss Cameron exclaims, but she respects her brave little countrywoman all the more, because she is so visibly distressed at the situation.
“Let us go over the facts,” adds Miss Cameron. “Here they are briefly: A number of your townspeople, seeing in you evidences of talent, raised a sum of money and sent you to Paris two years ago. Two of these people selected your masters (fortunately they made no mistake there); you have worked faithfully and conscientiously, and have accomplished more than most art students do in twice the time. This year two of your studies have been in the Salon, one of them was bought by a Frenchman of critical taste; and you have a number of charming saleable studies, besides your large picture of the garden-party intended for next year’s Salon, in which festive scene your humble servant poses as the hostess serving tea to a group of fin-de-siècle society people. You are sure to make a hit with that, so many of the figures are actual portraits, and Paris dotes on personalities. It is conceded that merit no longer wins, but to be ‘received’ one must be a friend of some member of the jury, or paint the people whose vanity moves them to pull some wire, so that they may gaze down from the Salon walls upon an inquisitive and envious public.”
“And in this case can I count on you or some of your admirers to pull the wires, Katherine?” Miss Paterson mischievously asks.
“Yes; that picture shall hang ‘on the line,’ even if I have to lobby for it; but you know all the artists think it splendidly treated,” said Miss Cameron.
“I hoped it would be received this year, but, do you know, I have been considering all day whether I had better not sell it now, and send back as much money as I can raise immediately; for I intend to marry Edgar McDowald, with the benediction of my patrons if possible—without it if necessary,” emphatically declares Miss Paterson.
“And I shall aid and abet you, especially if you intend to show them that ‘love laughs at locksmiths’—and creditors. But, seriously, why not have an art sale? I am off to a musicale at that extraordinary Mrs. Smyth’s (formerly spelt with an i), who begins every Monday morning sending letters, followed during the week by three-cornered notes marked ‘pressée,’ in which she ‘begges’ her dear friend, whoever it may be, to run in Saturday afternoon, and casually remarks that some ‘celebrated musicien’ will perform. The joke is they usually do, and we all find ourselves there once or twice a season. To-night the American Minister has promised to be present, and I shall profit by the occasion to invite everyone to your studio next week to see some charming studies which will be for sale.”
Miss Paterson knew Miss Cameron’s influence, and felt that she was quite safe in letting her friend have her way; so after talking over the details they separated.
That evening Miss Cameron succeeded in quietly scattering the information through the crowded rooms that a very charming friend of hers, the Miss Paterson, who occasionally received with her, would have a little private art sale the following week. Among the attentive listeners was Mr. Vincent, who casually asked if Miss Paterson had finished her Salon picture which she had described to him.