A LESSON IN ART,

Press, Volume LIV, Issue 9836, 20 September 1897, Page 2

A LESSON IN ART,

By F. Fkaxhtort Moors.

The Lady's Realm,

" Advice—you'd like my advice, you cay. A>l vice is the opinion of a friend which one asks when one has made up one's mind what con m> to pursue." M i- Fcnton's smilo broadened into a laugh :is the pretty girl who stood before him Hushed slightly, turning her head away with v litllc impatient movement. " I thought you were my friend," eaid Olive West reproachfully, with her face still averted. "And you wore right there, my dear," said Mr Fenton. " Bnt you know perfectly well that you have made up your mind what course to pursue." '' How could I make up my mind before hearing what you might have to say to mc on the subject of my going to London?" eaid eho. "My future is serious enough to mo, Mr Fenton, and I fancied that you might also " "And sol should, my little friend, if I didn't know you oh well a3 I do. Come now; tell mc all that troubles you. Is it Art or Dick this time ? " Tho girl coloured again very prettily ; then her brows contracted. " I like Diok, :; she said. " But " "Ah!" " Yes, I liko him very much, but " "Quite so. You mean that you shrink from the commonplace aspects of a future to be spent in this neighbourhood. You long for the Larger Life—the wider horizon in the higher realms of Art ? Isn't that what your ' but' means?" " Exactly," she cried. " I feel inclined to ask what is the good of being born into the world if ono cannot achieve something higher than is within one's reach here ? " " I hawe now and aj?ain asked myself the same question," said Mr Fonton. "If we could suggest any adequate answer to that question we should have solved one of the greatest problems of the universe. Have you ever heard of the waste of nature ? " "To live in Hftzelbury is not to live in the world, it seems to mc," said tho girl. "I feel that I was made to do something in the world— the world—that is not Hazelbury. Hazelbury is hopeless." "And yet Hazolbury has a Reading Society, hasn't it ? If you don't get through a volume of Carlyle a month, you are fined sixpence; if you are lured into reading a novel, you have to pay nineponce." " The Beading Society is apiece of foolishness." ""Then there is the Ghurch Choral Union." OKve laughed. " A rookery with a sore throat," she said. " Oh, I'm eiok of Hazelbury. I want something larger—fuller—l want Life. I want to live." v And so yon won't marry Dick Overton ? suggested Mr Fenton. "I'm afraid not," said Olive, shaking her head. " Marrying Dick would mean dooming myself to a" future in Hazelbury." " I can't dony that. His father's bank is here, and he is in the business. He'll be a partner in three or four years. Stay—the bank has a branch at Askwith-cum-Barton. If you would rather live at Askwifch-cum-Barton, I've no doubt that it could be managed." "Oh ! Askwith-cum-Barton !" " Well, I think that on the whole Hazelbury is better than Aakwith, in spite of such aggressions as the Reading Society and the Church Choral Union. Of course, if you don't marry Dick, someone else will." There was a considerable pause before she said, with a little frown, " I hope they will be happy." " That's very kind of you, but I'd rather hear you express a> wish to scratch her face. 1 suppose the girl will be Lottie Shepherd." Ofive's lips curled after her eyee had given t a quick flash. " I hope they will be happy," she said again, but in mute a different tone from that which marked her previous expression of the same hope. " Ah, that sounds healthier ; there's a promise of scratches in every word. Still, it might be Mary Marchmont." "I hope not. If I cannot marry Dick myself " " Bnt you can." She shook her head in a way that suggested a certain chastened pride. She knew that Dick,wished for nothing better than to marry her. "Isee it is hopeless looking to you for advice," she said sadly. " Even you do not understand mc, though I fancied you did. I will not trouble you any longer, Mr Fenton." "Sit down again and don't be a goose," said he. " I knew that you had made up your mind what to do, and yet you said yon came to mc for advice. Now it so happens that I quite agree with you in this particular matter. It would be ridiculous for a girl with such aspirations as you possess to marry the son of a banker at a place such aa this is; you would both be miserable for the rest of your lives." " That is what I feel. Ido feel it very deeply," "Of course you do. What is the name of the young woman who was staying with yon in the summer—the artist young woman?"

"Angela Power." "Of course that's her name. You learned a trood deal from her, did you not ? " "A good deal ? Everything ! I learned everything from her. She taught mc what Life is-—what Art is."

" Quite so. What Art is, and what Dick is. not. And-now you have made up your mind to go and live that ideal life in London.; and as you have done mc the honour to aak mc for my advice in the matter, it is most gratifying to mc to be ablo to tell you that I believe you to be quite right." " You advise mo to go to London ? "

" Undoubtedly I do. Why should you remain in a place where it is impossible that any work of art could receive the appreciation of which it is deserving ? "

"I'm so glad that yon think so. Oh, I feel that I have got it in ine to succeed as an artist. I cannot expect to have a studio of my own all at once, of course, but I mejui to share ono with Angela and a couple of other girls." "That will be a capital plan at first. Later on, no doubt, yon will think of building something palatial. But let mc advise you not to do so in a hurry. I hear that one can pick up a good many palatial studios nowadays for about a tenth part of the money spent in building them." "I shall keep my eyes open, never fear." " And open the eyes of other people, I'm sure—people in this neighbourhood who have got as much idea of Art and—and Life as they have of the most suitable cuisine for the inhabitants of the planet Mars." She gave a laus;h. Hβ knew from that laugh that ho had rightly guessed what was in her heart. Life was not life so long as it did not make people open their eyes. " I know I shall have to work hard," she said; " but what signifies working hard when it leads to appreciation f" " What, indeed ? Why, it becomes as a dream of the night. And when do you mean to leave us r'

" I feel that the sooner I get into harness the better it will be for all of us. Time is flying. I have wasted too many years of my life already. I shall be an old woman before I have begun to live." " I think you are on the shady side of twenty already?" " I am twenty-three." "Is it possible? Ah, yes, yon'll have to make hasto if you want to do anything before you are past work." The girl smiled the confident smile of twenty-three in the presence of fifty. " I can now go home with a light heart," s&id she. "Of course, poor mother was opposed to my scheme." "Oh, of course. Mothers soinetimos have queer ideas. I shouldn't wonder if she questioned the possibility of your doing oetter for yourself than marrying Dick." " That is exactly what she said," cried the girl. " • Marriage ia tho best career for a girl, , poor mother said, when I told her all that I hoped to do."

" Ah ! that is so like a mother—raaxriaee a career ! Well, well."

"And I promised her to be guided by what you would say ; so now I can go home ■with a tight heart."

" And I trnst that it will remain with yon when you leave yaur home, my child." Mr Fenton gave her his hand. She clasped ifc in both her own quite prettily while ehc thanked him again and again Bat whtr- ehe got to the door she >f she had something more to say For come reason or other the words did not come at once She kept her eyes fixed on tihe handle of the ooor, at which she worked. Bue seemed greatly interested in the

mechanism. He waited patiently for her to speak. « \ {.—like Dick very much, Mr Fen-

ton," ahe said at last. " I only feel that— that—well, I'll be sorry to leave Dick."

" That's because you have a kind heart

my dear," said he. " But if I were you I wouldn't think too much about Dick's disappointment. I know what these young chaps are—they fancy, for the time being, that it would be impossible for them to

think of any other girl than the one on whom they" believe they have set their hearts; but bless your soul, my child, they arc over head and ear 3 with another girl before the one that has treated them (as they suppose) unkindly has finished her afternoon tea. Don't worry yourself about Master Dick; he'll find ample consolation for your absence before you are gone twenty-four hours, the young rascal!"

There was another paiwe and some more twitching of the handle of the door before she said, —

" I hope he may be happy." " Don't question that for a moment," said her adviser.

Sho went slowly out of the room and shut the door carefully behind her. As ahe passed the window, walking down the street, Mr Fenton gavo a laugh, saying,— " The silly little woman ! "

He had shown his appreciation ot her temperament by refraining from alluding, in so many words, to her silliness when face to face with her. JTo knew how futila the attempt would be to convince a pretty girl, who lias lived all her life among admiring friends in tlie country, that she is silly ; at ths same time, he knew how futile it would bo to try and convince either the mother or the lover of that same pretty girl that he was right in refraining from such an attempt. He had an ample opportunity during the few days following his interview with Ol've West, ot consolidating his opinion in regard to the laHer point; for he was visited both by Olive's mother and Olive's lover, and they both expressed their surprise—they gave him to understand that it bordered upon indignation—at the character of the advice which ho had given to tho girl. The lady declared that it was difficult for her to believe in the sincerity of the friendship of anyone who had countenanced tho taking of so serious a step as that upon which he had advised Olive; and the young man was even more bitter in his references to the came matter.

"I can't understand how you could ridicule that girl Angola Power one day— ridicule her and her parrot phrases about the artistic life being the true one, and woman's place in tho world, and all such nonsense, and immediately afterwards turn round and advise Olive to accept her theories as if they were Gospel," said Dick, in the course of his interview with Mr Fenton.

" I feel quite melancholy at your failure to understand the situation, my boy," said Mr Fenton. "But at the same time I feel powerless to enlighten you further than I have already done. Don't you know that there's nothing I should like better in the world than to see you and Olive happily married."

"You have said so more than once, Mr Fenton," said Dick ; " and I'm sure I feel greatly obliged to you ; but still, I must say that I think " " That I have a queer way of showing you that I am sincere in this matter?—that's what you suggest," said Mr Fenton, as Dick made a pause. " Well, Ido say that " " No, you'd best not say it, my boy. You really beliove that you and Olive would be happy if you were to get married tomorrow ?" " I should, at any rate. I can swear to that." " That's the way a man looks at the incident of marriage. He says, ' She will make mc happy.' He is content to place to one side all consideration of the possibility of his making the girl happy." " I am sure that Olive would be happy with mc. I'd do my best for her—you know that I would, Mr Fenton." '•I know you would, Dick; but I'm equally certain that you wouldn't succeed, for marriage with you wouldn't clear away those theories of life which she has acquired. Would it tend to promote harmony in your household, do you think, if your wife were to make up her mind that it was due to herself to prove the accuracy of her theories regarding Life and Art and other abstractions ?" " If I were married to her I think that my influence " " Would prevail upon her to stay at home ? Well, it might go so far; but that ia where she would be unhappy, may be until the end of her days. Take my word for it, Dick, there's nothing so good for a girl as to sow her wild oats in the way of theories before she is married." " And so you've sent Olive up to London, where she'll be certain to meet with some adventurer who will impose his theories of Life and Art upon her, taking very good care that the most prominent of these includes her marrying him to start with —that's what youVe done, Mr Fenton; and I tell you that if harm comes of it, I'll hold you responsible, sir." •' That will be very kind of you, my young friend. Well, I won't trouble yon just now to tell mc how you will hold mc responsible —whether you will horsewhip mc, or County Court mc, or merely cut my acquaintance. Time, I've no doubt, will suggest to you which course would be tho wisest for you to follow. Meantime, will you play mc a game of billiards? We may as well be merry— moderately merry—before the crash comes." "I don't feel much inclined for billiards," said Dick, witii a note of reproach in his voice.

" Well, if you won't come in, I'll say au revoir," said Mr Fenton, feeling for his latch-key, for his interview with Dick had taken place in the High Street of Hazelbury, and his house was the last in the street.

Hazelbnry is a delightful little country town in the north-west of England. It is noted for its picturesque situation, which precludes the possibility of its streets being otherwise than steep and inconvenient. This feature is referred to more enthusiastically by visitors to the town than by residents in it. The townspeople are commonplace enough to think that they would be content to satisfy the picturesqueness to convenience.

Olive West lived with her mother, her young brother, and a sister, in a pretty cottage on the side of one of the slopes. Mrs West waa a widow, and though left pretty well provided for, she was not in such opulent circutnstanees that she could afford to neglect tho opportunities which the excellent Grammar School of Hazelbnry afforded for the education of her son. Nor was she so unworldly as to be incapable of perceiving the advantages likely to accrue to her elder daughter from marrying Dick Overton, the only son of the head of the banking-house of Overtons, Barkson, and Bailey. It was quite understood iv Hazelbury that Dick was in love with Olive, but the majority of the young women in the neighbourhood could not for the life of them understand how it was that Olive kept shillyshallying—that was the phrase they employed to describe the situation—with so eligible a young man. Mrs West could not understand it either. Olire did not conceal the fact that she was very fond of Dick ; but she was afraid she did not love him sufficiently well to promise to marry him. Every one said her feara were the merest affectation—that she only wished to show Dick that she placed a proper value on herself, and was not to be too easily won. Some people added that she might go too far in pursuing these tactics; others said she knew what she was about.

It was while this love affair was being discussed by all Hazelbury that Miss Angela Power had coaie on a visit to Olive from London, and had begun to talk to her about the seriousness of Art as a part of life about the necessity for every woman to work out a career for herself, quite independently of all men. Woman, Miss Power said, was becoming articulate. She had been dumb for many centuries, man having taken great care that she should not become instructed in the medium of expression, which ia Art. She was now beginning to express herself, and man was shaking in his shoes.

That was Miss Power's Go3pel of Emancipation, and its reiteration produced a deep effect upon Olive. Her friend told her of the joys of studio life in Kensington, where she and two other yousig women shared a studio, and were—according to Angela—producing some really remarkable work—work which was having its influence upon the age, work which was making the workers feel that they were Articulate Voices (the phrase was Angela's) in the world. Now it so happened that Olive tad all her

life felt that ahe was an artist. Her drawing lessons had been the pleasanteat part of her education, and every one within a radius of ten miles of Hazelbury who had seen her sketches done in water-colours had praised them. She had thuß constantly felt that she was an artist; and she had even been consulted as to the colours to be combined in the texts thatdecorated the walls of the church schoolhouse. Consequently Angela Powec found in her an earnest disciple, and one day she went to her mother with the confession that she conld no longer remain in Hazelbury, believing, as she did, that it was her duty to adopt an artistic career in London. Her mother w.is greatly disturbed at this confession, and she was weak enough to fancy that the subject was one which admitted of argument. Sho endeavoured to show Olive that if she went to London she might never have a chanca of marrying any one, leaving the question of bankers' sons out of consideration altogether. But, of course, Olive explained that her heart was not set upon contracting a brilliant marriage, but upon expressing herself through tbs medium of the art of painting—upon making known to the waiting world the message which she had to convey to all who cared to receive it. She said she felt that she had a talent and could not avoid the responsibility of uutkingnse ot it for the good of the world. Ah ! that responsibility was a serious thing; it was not to be shirked !

Her mother remonstrated with her, and Dick Overtoil put his arm rouud her waist ; but Olive wa3 firm. Marriage was not a career—a woman did not send forth any message to the world by the act of marrying a m;\n —she only conveyed a message to one person in the world. "And the-girl who is able to convey a message of love to one person in the world is more fortunate than the majority of girls," said her mother ; bufc Olive only smiled gravely, giving her mother to understand that she was on th« wrong track altogether. It was the next day ahe had the interview with Mr Fenton, who had been the lifelong friend of her family, and within a week she had taken her doparture for London. She had about two hundred a year of her own, so there was no question of her starving, as so many other women and men have done while endeavouring to convey their message to the world ; but she explained to her mother that she quite expected that, after her first year in London, her messagebearing to the world would be placed on a firm commercial basis. These were not, of course, her exact words, but their bearing was to the same effect. Meantime she was to share Angela Powers studio and to live with that young lady in order to learn more about the art of conveying messages to a waiting world. It seemed rather strange to Olive that any sort of back street should be thought good enough as a site for artists' studios. She wondered if there prevailed the impression among building speculators that a studio should be off au allej. The atelier of Miss Power and her associates was bundled away in a curious entry off an unlovely Kensington street. But then, it was a studio, and every girl who contributed, with varying degrees of regularity, to the rent of the building, had the privilege—of which, by the way, she availed herself pretty frequently—of alluding fco it as "my studio." It makes a girl fee I that she is really an artist when she can talk of "my studio." "Canyou broil ham V Constance Kennedy inquired of her when she had come out of the tiny bedroom ofi the studio which she was to share with Angela. " JBroil ham ? " said Olive. " Yes : we're dining off broiled ham today—ham and eggs—but that idiotic slavey of ours has got no idea of hitting off a happy medium in broiling ham : she either offers it to us raw or burnt to a cinder," was Miss Kennedy's reply. ' Miss Kennedy was a short, plump young woman with a towzled head of red hair—not the right red. As a matter of fact, towzled hair seemed to be common to every young woman with a Message, as Olive soon found out. " I never broiled ham in my life, bnt I don't suppose it's very hard to do." said Olive. " Oh, isn't it just!" cried Miss Kennedy. " Don't trouble Olive with your nonsense," said Angela, coining into the studio at that moment; then, turning to Olive, she added apologetically, " You must think us frightfully inhospitable, my dear Olive, not to have dinner ready for you, but we've been fearfully busy all day and hadn't a moment to ourselves. We had a model, and our light is precious." Olive did not need to be assured as to the latter point. If it is the scarcity of anything that makes it valuable, she felt certain that the light which was permitted to enter the studio was indeed precious. It was unfortunately, however, too abundant to allow the grimy aud squalid aspect of the studio to remain concealed. Olive looked round the building, which was really a barn decorated with penny Japanese fans and other Oriental creations, and she recollected having heard Mr Fenton say upon one occasion that Japan was deserving of the greatest praise for being able to compete successfully with Birmingham in the manufacture of Japanese ornaments. » "Lovely bita of colour, are they not?" cried another girl with a towzled head, who noticed her glancing at the fans and the Iman plates (sold at the draper's). " What an eye for chromatic combinations thoee Orientals have !" Tho other girls raised their heads (towzled), and sighed with faint smiles. ! The sound of the frizzling of ham was beard, and an occasional sniff of the same comestible in a state of combustion approaching incineration was perceptible. " She's burning it again !" cried Miss Kennedy, throwing down her palette, and making a dive for a door, which certainly led to a kitchen. Her act of opening the door set free an imprisoned odorous demon, which swooped into the studio and clutched Olive by the throat, almost choking her. The other girls tittered a3 she coughed. " You'll soon get used to it," eaid one, whose name was Maud Hford. " It's as impossible to broil ham without filling the house with it as it is to make omelettes without breaking egc;s." "Ham and eggs constitute the artist's atand-by," remarked Angela. " You see, they're so very handy." Olive felt that they were very handy— diabolically handy; but she only said she was very fond of both ham and egg 3. When she made that remark, however, she had referred to the ham and eggs with which she had occasionally met in Hazelbury, certainly not the combination of the two which she faced when she eat down to the studio dinner after the lapse of a few minutes. She felt her hunger vanish at the sight of the dish and of the maid who served it. She wondered if woman could only express herself fully to the waiting world on a rtyime in which the oleaginous elements were predominant. She however, drank a cup of tea, and ate some nice bread-and-butter.

After this meal the four girls sat round the studio sfcove—the month was March — and talk Art, three of them smoking cigarettes. Olive found that to discuss Art involves the discussion of artists, and the discussion of artists in this studio necessitated the abusing of all except one. The name of this one was Alaric Guerdon, and her companions made quite clear to Olive that there was a combination of Royal Academicians and others against him. In fact, she learned that there was not an art society in London that did not include a committee organised solely for the purpose of crushing him. No picture that he ever sent in was hung. It was only natural that this should be so, as he was right, and all the others were wrong, and all the others envied him.

Olive wondered how men—artiste with great names in the world—could be so small; bnt Angela only smiled, and said she would soon come to know all the thorns that were strewn upon the path that leads to immortality. Angela did not quote the words of Shelley, bnt she expressed the same sentiment in her own language. About supper time Mr Alaric Guerdon paid a visit to the studio, and was introduced to Olive. He was a small young man, with the most marvellous hair she had ever seen. It was long and black—almost purple—and wavy. He was said to be like Dante, and it was hi 3 impression that he was like Dante. (There ara at the present moment ten young men and fourteen middle-aged women in the world of art and letters who are said to be lite Dante).

He talked. The girls sat before him, in the one attitude—bending slightly forward with clasped hands. He talked a great deal about his own work, and how he was right and every one else wrong. He alluded to all the other artists, not' as artists, but as ax tieans. Hβ sneered at the Royal Academy.

{It is understood in certain circles that when you have sneered at the .£? Academy, you have gone as far as is possible to go in proving that you know all about Art.) And then he began to talk to Olive. Mc liked fresh audiences, because he felt that he impressed them. He told her that she must be careful never to pay attention to what any oue might say to her—any one with the exception of himself. He promised to guide her in the right way, and he could assure her that if she followed his guidance she might one day—with care—be as unpopular as himself. Then he he?an to talk about Woman becoming Articulate, after many centuries of silence. Olive glanced involuntarily at Angela, for every phrase that tne little" man employed she had heard from the mouth of Angela a month before. Mr Alaric Guerdon allowed himself to be persuaded to remain to supper. Ho ate a considerable portion of one of those bricks of delicious beef which come to England m neatly labelled C3ns from America, and are even handier than ham in artistic circles. He drank a whole jugful of beer, and compounded the worst salad that ever Olive had failed to eat. Then he invited Olive to visit him at his studio and learn what true Art was. In an hour or two he went away, and the girls turned to her and inquired if he was not wonderful. She said he was wonderful, and she felt that so he was.

It was rather terrible for her to have to share a small room, even with Angela Power; and she felt that the difference between the atmosphere of the alley off which the studio was situated, and the air on the Hazslbury slope which she had forsaken, was very great. Still, she felt that sho was facing Life and Art, and she hoped eventually to become Articulate.

She unpacked her portfolios of sketches, and her box of sucli drawings as she had pat into frames. She had found several old fiames which her father had picked up in Italy, years before she had been born. She wondered if she might haug a few round the studio—the other girls had hung several of their works in various parts of the building. No one encouraged her to carry out her intention. Only Angela cried out, on seeing the frames— '' How lucky you are to have some already framed ! We* shall take a couple round to Metcalfe 1 s later on, and see if he cannot sell them." " Do you think any of them really worth selling.?" asked Olive. " Tlmy are worth trying to sell at any rate," replied Angela. "There's no knowing what- will sell."" "But I really only meant " " Oh, there's no u*e keeping anvl.hing by you. There's nothing so encouraging to an artist as selling a picture or two—not that the public know anything about pictures, but still. . . . Oh, yes, you must make a beginning. There's always a chanco of a fire at Metcalfe's, and he keeps his goods fully insured, so you would make a good thing out of a blaze, even though it oaly lasts a few hours." This very direct means of getting rid of her work had not suggested itself to Olive previously ; but she thought it totter to place herself unreservedly in the hands of her friend, so they went out together with a couple of the framed drawings. The shop of Mr Metcalfe was nob far away. It w&g said he made a pretty fair livelihood out of selling artists' materials to young ladies whose works he exhibited in his window and about his shop, marked " for sale." He sometimes did really sell one or two of their-drawings. In the case of one young lady he succeeded in soiling no fewer than five. Sho had a lover who bought them all, and when shs refused to marry him he returned them at one-fourth the price he had paid for them. Mr Metcalfe, after selling Olive three pounds' worth of materials, said he would be very pleased to exhibit her two sketches, and he placed them in a conspicuous part of his window before her very eyes. Then Olive treated her friend to a lunch at Barkers, and they returned to work. f " - For a week she laboured away with the other girls, reproducing a model, having readily agreed to pay her share of that expense; and almost every evening Mr Alaric Guerdon called at the studio and pointed out her mistakes. She was pro.-. J foundly discouraged. It seemed that she knew absolutely nothing about art. She had actually erred so greatly as to, endeavour to reproduce; the features of theSliJodel tv her picture. Mr Guerdon smiled pityingly ; for he was clever enough to perceive the likeness. This would not do at all, he declared. If she Avere not looked after she might degenerate into a portrait-painter. Hβ invariably remained to supper. Before a fortnight had passed she began to wonder how a young woman could make herself Articulate through the medium of pain Mug. She did not get much help from the other girls in her efforts tio answer this question satisfactorily. They took no interest whatever in her work. They pretended they liked smoking cigarettes. At the end of a month she began to wonder if it could be- possible that the phrases of Angela which had induced her to leave her home and come up to this squalid studio, were nothing more than husk-phrases — words empty of life and meaning. And then she got a letter from Mr Fenton, telling her all about Hazelbury, and tho bloom upon the pear-trees. In a postscript he mentioned that Dick Over ton had become a frequent visitor at the rectory. (The Rector hail an extremely pretty daughter.) She felt her face become hot, and her tears were not to be repressed. She looked out of her window into the dull street and saw the pear trees of the rectory garden at Hazelbury, exquisite with blossoms, half concealing two figures that sat hand-in-hand beneath the boughs, and then she flung herself down on her bed and wept in earnest, for it suddenly dawned upon her that she had been a fool. • When she recovered herself she felt that she could not face the girls in the studio, so she put on her hat and, remarking chat she was going o\it to buy a stretcher for a new picture, hurried away. Mr Metcalfe met her with a smile when she entered his shop. " One of your drawings has just been bought, Alias," he said. " Fifteen shillings. Shall I give you the money now, Miss ? "

Her heart leapt up. "What! Sold—one of the drawings?" she stammered.

"Yes, Miss. You: see, you asked a

reasonable price—not the value of the old Italian frame. I'm always telling the other young ladies that if they'd only be reasonable " " Who conld have bought it ? " Someone who knows what a drawing is, Miss-Mr Hubert Wigmn, the R.A." " What! Mr Wigram—Mr Wigiain ? Oh, 110, I don't want the money now, Mr Metcalfe. I'm really obliged to you. Please placo the money to my credit. I'll want some things from you later on." She loft the shop with a flushed face. She f3lt exultant. During all the time she had been at the studio, not a drawing of any of the girls had been sold. Before she had walked far she made up her mind to take a bold step. She would go to the studio of the Royal Academician who had thought her work worth buying, aud ask his advice as to her future course of study. She would ask him if she should give up all her time to landscapes or if she should continue working from " the life." She knew Mr Wigram's house in Melbury Road. While she was walking toward Hammersmith road, she met Alaric Guerdon. He stopped her and reminded her that she had never yet visited his studio. She must do so now. Hβ would take no refusal. He was engaged at a work which he was anxious she should see. He assured her that she would learn more from examining that work than she could from a year's study in the galleries. The offer was too tempting to be resisted. She went with the little man to his studio. It also was down a back street, and it was not much to look at. He placed on an easol an unfinished picture of a serni-nudo, swarthy woman. The painter pointed out its beauties to her for quite five minutes in the empty studio. She thought it frightful in every way, so she said it was very fine and turned away from it.

Then Mr Alaric Guerdon pub his arms round her waist and kissed her on the face.

The cry she tittered rang through the room. She looked at him With blazing eyes. It took her quice three seconds to recover from her astonishment, but only a third' of that space of time to rush at him and strike him on the face with her fist.

She knocked him against the light easol on which he had placed his canvas. Hβ foil among its ruins beside his picture. Sho stood upou the face of the swarthy woman, her arm upraised, ready to give him another blow in case he should make an attempt to rise.

He did not make snch an attempt. He lay on the ground and whimpered—actually whimpered. "You cur!" she said. She raised her foot as if about to trample upon him, and he writhed and whimpered again. She did not trample upon him, however; sho only trampled upon his picture. Sho wiped her feat upon the nude limbs of the woman, aud then walked out of the studio.

It took her a quarter of an hour recovering from the eifects of her anger, aud at the end of that time she found herself quite collected and just opposite Melbury road. She walked on quietly up to the house of Mr Wigrain, R.A., and inquired if that gentleman was at home.

The servant said she believed that he was in the studio, and asked her if she would step inside and wait to see him. She was shown into a small room at the side of the hall—a room containing a few marvellous old Italian chairs, some ivory carvings, and a couple of fine pieces of old Limoges enamel. Then she gave a start, for on a table beside her was the frame in which her drawing, Bold that morning by Mr Metcalfe, had been enclosed ; but in-place of that drawing, it now contained an old Italian picture, done on v/ood. On tho parquet at her feet lay her own work, torn and crumpled.

In that moment she knew the truth. The great painter had bought the drawing for the sako of its old Italian frame, and in putting his picture into it he had not even thought it worth whilo preserving her drawing. He had torn it out any way, and had flung it down as though it were waste paper. The servant returned, saying that Mr WigFam was not in hie studio. He had gone out by the studio door half an hour before. She asked if the young lady would leave her name.

She did not leave her name. She hurried out of the house. An omnibus, with the name " King's Cross" painted on it, was passing. She felt in her pocket. Her purse, containing two pounds, was still there. The fare to Hazolbury was only nine shillings. She was entering the booking-office to take her ticket when she found herself face to face with Dick Overton.

"Great Heavens!" he cried. "Is it possible that you are here, Olive ? Why, I was on my way to you. I have just arrived." " And I—l was on my way to you, Dick," said she.

"What! You have had enough of that business ? "

" Enough ! Enough ! Oil, more than enough ! Never let mc see a picture again." He laughed. " Leave that to me*" he said. She did leave it to him.