The Nest, The White Pagoda, The Suicide, A Forsaken Temple, Miss Jones and The Masterpiece

n repeated. He did not sho

I see the thing. It w

are falling into anecdote? You are not going t

ome concern, for he took a fr

t nothing of the sort. I am going to pa

ortr

portrait o

. His feet were on another chair, and the broad soles

in character; a costume picture," he said, p

flight of my imagination? Seriously, Carrington, I intend to paint a masterpiece. I intend to paint a woman who would sell her soul for p

f at the end, if I remember r

fortable. Her love was of the doubtful quality that flies out of the window as want comes in a

erything would depen

oing to astonish yo

ut that," Carrington

ace of pretty depravity. The face is the thing-the key. Where find the face? I think of a trip to Paris on purpose. One sees the gla

he added: "not at all; anything but depraved. But-her face; you could select." Carrington mused.

so, after a fashion. I should like a touch of child

his lips and contemplating the fine colourin

" I ejaculated;

, it

you know. How could one tell a lady that she was

if she's the

ried it,"

ou might see her, at least. Her father is a socialist; a very h

ntenance posing for the académie? That s

ning and tooling, too. You remember that Petrarch of mine. That's really how I came to know him. It was the artist in him that wrestled with and overthrew the parson. He seems a happy old chap; poor as Job's turkey and absorbed in his work. He has rather longish hair-wavy, and wears a leather belt and no collar." Carrington added: "That's the first socialist

rrington himself had shown at the announcement of my "label," bu

d cheek-line." Miss Jones's cheek had evidently made an emphatic impression. Indeed, Carrington's e

colouring

them taking up the books-she was dusting the books. I've only seen her on

that Carrington should see Mr. Jones, and, if possible, make an a

or, in the little court of a

Chinese porcelain. He and I had art-for-art sympathies, and, being lucky young men from a mo

s worth while to please, and a hearty and encouraging philistine opposition. I had even shocked Mrs. Grundy in an Academy pic

Manon L

eighteenth century whirled in its satin

Jones, fervently hoping

mother's nationality. With a most business-like air she removed this hat, carefully replacing the pins in the holes they had already traversed, took off her coat (it was February), and turned to the light. She would do. Evident and del

uvaille and genuinely of the epoch; an

ich I laid lovingly on her arm. She retired with a b

nting; I should have to compass it by analogy. My imagination had grasped it, and I should realize the type by the aid of Miss Jones's pale face, narrowing to a chin the French would call mutin, her curled lips and curiously set eyes, wide apart, and the brows tha

ect were soon decided upon, and in a day or two I was regularly at work, deligh

looking from my canvas to Miss Jones, wo

ad as she looks sideways in the mirror is really émouvant, life; good idea; in character;

the dim white of an eighteenth century boudoir about her.

self-confident for that. Her silence was natural, not

e was reading. She replied,

nova

y and whose father, as a socialistic bookbinder, might have inculcated more advanced literary tastes. Still, she was very y

sense of mastery. Effort, yes; but achievement followed it with a sort of inevitable

; yet they were all my own, seen through my own eyes, not through the eyes of Chardin, Whistler, or Velasquez. The blacks sung emphatic or softened notes from the impertinent knot in the powdered

s, after a fashion, she, too, was responsible for it and had a ri

, she would step up to my canvas, give it a pleasant but impassive look

value I might set upon her artistic acumen, this

s in literature, but her reserve aroused conjecture, an

ay, my curiosi

brightly indifferent gaze. Miss Jones turned upon me her agate eyes-the eyelashes

reat deal of talent," she s

the standard implied; but perceiving a perhaps lofty conce

is he? And in the sense of having much

Miss Jone

ings, and photographs on the walls. This discursive glance was already familiar to me, an

a good deal, for she seldom carried on a subject unp

e, if ever anything was. Did Miss Jones not recognize the intellectual triumphs embodied in that

yself that my picture cou

e now rested on me

k of art should

whether she was really rather clever

that my picture-as a beautiful work of

, feeling decidedly snubbed. Carrington sauntered in shortly after, his forefinger in a book and a pipe between his teeth. He apologized

her nasty sm

ss Jones, observing him affably while she retained her pose to perfection, added: "I h

e any man feel awkward, and Carrington looked s

onishing-and the lack of resemblance. That's the triu

ration" of my work; in intrinsic character the face

rington's eye, passing from m

miling, and, of cou

Priscilla-pagan or puritan; both are interesting types, and the contra

rself wonderfully to be

l that you should have imag

en Carrington had go

day. Papa thinks rather highly of him. It

e that Miss Jones had painfull

from the socialistic

agree to differ upon that as upon many other questi

essness nor proffer a plea for socialism. I was beg

she again came and st

r," she said. "The picture was in the Ac

in my body curdle. A conscienceless old prater of the soap and salve s

I said, rather faintly; "w

ging over her shoulders (perhaps you would not recognize me in this costume), looking up, her hands crossed on her breast. Before her stood a jibing Roman. One could see it all; the contrast be

s taste; for Watkins's "Faith Conquers Fear" had been one of the jokes of the year-a lamentably crude, pre

s gravely enrapt expression to Manon's seductive gra

I remained silent, and evidently considering the time come when duty required her t

severe criticism implied; I could not b

and interesting; the rest will follow. But a badly-painted picture certainly makes me feel wicked, and wh

subjects as no one since has painted them. Why did not Velasquez, at least, as he could not rise to the i

d by her compl

had no soul

! Copied! What of his splendid decorativeness, his colour

ith an air of humouring a silly materialism; and as she went back to her pos

rather serious

palette. "I must beg of you to bel

e, but down into the mirror. This effect of duty fu

ve facility, talent, and might employ them on a higher

non startled me, so lacki

ore than a vain youn

no doubt, but I have posed for other characters, you see!" Her smile was so charming in its very fatuity that the vision of her lovely face, vulgarized and unrecognizable in "Faith Conq

ch beauty in taper finger-tips and turn of wrist-fell to her

"I am very sorry. I always speak my mind out; I n

uilty misery. I felt, somehow, that I was a shameful hypocrite, a

e no more in my picture. I care for your good opinion" (this was certainly, in a sense, a lie, and yet, for the moment, that guilty

t me gravely, M

That is a very manly, a very

lovely face looking into the mirror, with soulless, happy eyes, seemed to slide a smile at me, a smile of malicious compreh

wished to assure her that we had nothing in common and th

look, and only glanced at my picture. After absent replie

his ultra-?sthetic sensibilities, must find Miss Jones even mor

s Jones that piercing stab of shame again went through me, and m

arrington pursued, ignoring my approbation, "about the pi

rmured, "s

, "that's the trouble. She

do you

orant and as innocent as a baby. She's never read 'Manon Lescaut'-that came out en pass

of unmistakable resen

d I felt maimed-"how was I t

me! I told you about her. Said she had the type! Dull, blundering fool that I was not to have seen the shri

dently his disgust could not be

n a feeble effort to mitigate this self-scorn; "we neither of us m

rl-as good, to all intents and purposes-might know and not o

ance at my unlucky picture, and h

er, all's well-as we

e Greek gained its triumph over th

arrington, slowly, adding abr

ever Miss Jones might say or th