STORY OF AN ARTIST.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 32, 9 August 1890, Page 5

STORY OF AN ARTIST.

In an elegantly-appointed studio sat a noted artist in deep thought. He was earnestly contemplating a design for a cathedral window, and a look of annoyance flashed across his face as the door was suddenly flung open to admit the figure of a lady. The look vanished instantly, however, as the artist advanced to meet his visitor. * Are you Mr ?’ asked the lady shortly, yet casting a furtive glance at her muddy boots, buried deep in the pile of the beautiful Persian rug. ‘ I am, madam.’ ‘ Well,’ continued the lady, with an air of importance, ‘I have brought you a commissson. I want you to design the toe of this slipper for me. The design itself is to be embroidered in the shapeof a slipper. It is for the City Mission Fair, and I must have it immediately. Can you do it while I wait ?’ ‘ Pardon me, madam,’ courteously replied the artist ; ‘your kindness in giving me the commission is fully appreciated, but as I have not the honour of knowing you, I must ask you to pay me in advance.’ ‘ Oh, certainly,’ responded the lady, with great readiness, drawing out a well-filled purse. ‘ How much will it be ?’ ‘ Four hundred and seventy-five dollars, madam.’ ‘ What !’ screamed his visitor. ‘ Four hundred and seventy-five dollars,’ calmly responded the gentleman. ‘ What do you mean ?’ demanded the lady, growing more and more astonished. ‘Just what I say, madam,’quietly answered the artist. ‘ I think you have made some mistake. The commission you have been pleased to bring me is entirely out of my line. If you visit one of the places for fancy stamping in Pratt or Trumbull Street you will succeed in getting your work done to your entire satisfaction, I have no doubt.’ The lady gave a final glance around the studio, filled with European curios of every description and adorned with artistic works, from the magnificent picture in oils, covering half the wall, to a dainty, delicious little landscape, which in its very delicacy was a marvel, and, with another look at her muddy shoe and a parting, ‘ Well, 1 don’t believe you are the kind of artist I am looking for ’ (to which the gentleman courteously replied : ‘ I am afraid not, madam,’) she sailed out of the room, remarking to herself—as she savagely Sunched the elevator annunciator, and glared at two conicting shades of red which were mentally swearing at each other alsiut her dress—‘ I thought artists were always ready for work, and glad to get it, too !’