“Why, Mr. Brown, this photo is the very image of you.”
Beneath the photograph were the words:
“To Jasper Jyvecote from Ernest Noel.”
“Three days away from me! Why, it appeared three weeks,” exclaimed Father Maurice, as the artist returned to the cosy cottage of the amber thatch and snow-white walls. “I knew you would appreciate the Jyvecotes, and I felt that they would appreciate you. Have you taken any sketches?”
“One, the lake of Glendhanarrahsheen, which I mean to finish; and then, padre, I must say adios to Monamullin for many a long day.”
“Tut, tut, tut, man! we can’t do without you,” said the priest; “and mind you, Mr. Brown, I’m sure the ladies at Moynalty would have their likenesses done, and give you a good deal of money for them, too—probably as much as five pounds apiece.”
“Five pounds apiece,” thought the artist, “and Millais getting two thousand guineas for a single portrait!”
“And I’m delighted to tell you, my dear friend, that your O’Connell has already got you a job. Mr. Muldoon—you might have noticed his shop nearly opposite the chapel, a most flourishing concern—is anxious to have his likeness done, and will have his wife and mother painted also, as well as his five children and his collie; and if his maiden aunt comes over from Castlebar he’ll throw her in, provided you can draw her chaise. So I think,” added Father Maurice triumphantly, “I have been doing good business for you in your absence.”
“Splendid, my valued host! But before I can touch these commissions I must finish the lake.”