Cheriton was amused.
“My dear Lascelles,” said he, “simplicity is greatly to be desired in art, but it is well not to take it into the market-place. There is the man with whom you are doing business to be considered. If my friend Kendal paid fifty guineas for the picture of his daughter Priscilla, he would think exactly ten times less of it than if he paid five hundred; and instead of hanging it in his dining-room in the worst possible light, he would hang it in one of the smaller bedrooms in a very much better one.”
Cheriton’s homily was interrupted at this point by the return of Miss Perry. In her Gainsborough gown which she had worn at the fancy ball, and in her “incredible” hat, which by some miracle had been clapped on at just the right angle, she looked more distracting than any human creature ought really to do. She seated herself in the middle of the sofa with great composure, tilted her chin to the light of the morning, and folded her hands in her lap with almost the air of a professional.
“Out for blood,” said Jim, approvingly.
“Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “I am almost afraid this means a large one.”
“Yes,” said Jim, “I am a poor and obscure painter, but this zeal to serve the arts really merits encouragement.”
“Perhaps, Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “if Buszard is sincerely interested in art, as one feels sure he must be, he might be induced to make a reduction upon the large ones if you contracted for a quantity.”
Jim Lascelles was frankly delighted with the pose, and worked very happily. He was in high spirits. Thanks to his patron’s generosity, he had got out of his difficulty far more easily than he could have hoped to have done. His future prospects had also taken a sudden and remarkable turn for the better. Yet, apart from these considerations, his subject fired him. As he worked during this precious hour he felt that his execution had never had such boldness, freedom, and authenticity.
Cheriton watched his protégé with approval. As a critic he was sufficiently accomplished to detect great possibilities in Jim’s method. Here might be a genuine trouvaille, if the young fellow only had thoroughness as well as courage.
Miss Perry had not moved her chin once for nearly an hour, so that she felt her guerdon was as good as earned; Jim Lascelles had yielded for the same period to a genuine inspiration; and Cheriton sat at his ease, watching with every outward sign of satisfaction the fair fruits which were springing from his liberal treatment of the artistic temper, when this harmony of sitter, painter, and patron was gravely imperiled by the entrance of a little fat dog. As usual, he heralded the approach of an old woman leaning upon an ebony stick.