“Oh yes, do! Won’t that be charming!” interjected Madame, clapping her hands.
Matthew checked her with a stern glance. “I don’t think I should be able to do anything with an unknown man,” he said, shaking his head.
“No, I don’t mean that,” said Matt, getting hot. “I thought you might like to see that I wasn’t quite a duffer. I don’t expect to sell my work yet, but they think I’m rather promising at the school.”
“What school? Who thinks?”
“Tarmigan.”
“Tarmigan!” echoed Matthew Strang. “Why, I could have picked up one of his water-colors for a fiver last week. Tarmigan has been going down steadily for the last four years. He took the gold medal at the Academy, and at first promised well. Ten years ago I even meditated a corner in him, but luckily I had the sense to sell out in time, before it was quite certain he would never even be an Associate. No wonder he’s reduced to visiting.”
“Oh, but he does that for nothing, they say,” protested Matt, hotly. “He’s a jolly fine chap!”
“Ha! No wonder he doesn’t get on. Who ever heard of a really good man wasting his time in that way?”
“Then don’t you think I’m doing any good studying under him?” asked Matt, in affright.
“Oh, he’s all right for teaching; I haven’t a word against him. He’s one of the few men in England who are supposed to know their trade. But he’s too stilted and classical; there’s no sentiment in him; he don’t touch the heart of the buying public. It’s all science and draughtsmanship, and he won’t do anything to meet the market half way.”