The extraordinary thing is that this painting fever doesn’t seem to afflict professional painters; they know exactly when to stop. But then they don’t appreciate the luxury of their lot. They don’t realise that theirs is one of the few forms of labour in which a man has some tangible result (well, not tangible, perhaps) to show for his work at the end of the day. There is nothing more satisfactory than that. It is true, no doubt, that the professional painter would rather have a windy article like this to show; all I can say is I would rather have a bright-blue basement or a middle-green conservatory.
A.P.H.
Young Lady (making conversation). “How perfectly sweet! I’m sure I must have been there. I remember those glorious pines.”
Real Artist. “I call that ‘The Fertilising Influence of the Sun’s Rays on the Mind of a Poet lost in Thought.’”
Young Lady. “How perfectly sweet! No wonder he lost it, poor darling.“