Another man now made his appearance—an artist. I shall not forget him soon, for you do not often meet people who have the courage to appear at Sunday afternoons in a shabby, workaday business suit, unpolished shoes, a green neckerchief in lieu of collar and tie, and cuffless sleeves. I admired the quality, the workmanship, of the silver-set scarab which held his green linen neckerchief together, but I was a little puzzled as to whether he was very poor and his presence insisted upon, or comfortably progressive and indifferent to conventional dress. His face and body were quite thin; his hands delicate. He had an apprehensive eye that rarely met one’s direct gaze.
“Do you think art really needs that?” Miss N. asked me. She was referring to the green linen neckerchief.
“I admire the courage. It is at least individual.”
“It is after George Bernard Shaw. It has been done before,” replied Miss N.
“Then it requires almost more courage,” I replied.
Here Mrs. W. moved the sad excerpt from the morgue to the center of the room that he of the green neckerchief might gaze at it.
“I like it,” he pronounced. “The note is somber, but it is excellent work.”
Drawn by W. J. Glackens