thing I
paint goes to the governor. Some of the things he hangs about his own
place, you know, and some of them--more than half, I suppose--he has
cut into strips and sent back to me. He's a very singular man, and has
extraordinary ideas about pictures. But I've been working on one subject
now for some months past, and now I've finished it, and---- Look here,
Calvotti, I'll tell you everything. When I got here last night, I found
a letter from my governor telling me that my allowance is stopped after
next quarter-day, and that I must get a living by painting. He always
said he would give me the chance to make a living, and then leave me
to make it. Well, I'm not afraid of that, but I want a candid judgment,
because--because--Well, I'm engaged to be married, old man, and I can't
live on my wife, you know. And I want you to tell me candidly whether
there's any good stuff in me, and whether I can ever do anything, you
know.'

'You are engaged to Cecilia?' I asked him.

'Yes,' he said simply, 'I am engaged to Cecilia, and I want to begin
work in earnest now.'

'Let me look at your picture,' I said, and took my seat in the chair he
had placed ready for me.

He paused a minute as though he would have spoken, but checking himself,
he turned to the picture, drew away the cloth by which it was covered,
and passed behind me. The picture represented a garret room, through the
window of which could be seen the far-reaching roofs of a great city.
Against the window rose the figure of a girl who was seated at an old
grand piano. Her fingers rested on the keys, and her eyes were looking
a great way off. The face and figure were Cecilia's, the garret was that
in which I myself had lived, and the piano was mine. The outer light of
the picture was so subdued and calm that the face was allowed to reveal
itself quite clearly. I looked long and carefully, guarding myself from
a too rapid judgment. Arthur, as by this time I had begun to call him,
stood at the back of my chair. At last he laid a hand upon my shoulder--

'What do think about it?'

'Do you want my candid opinion?' I asked him.

'Yes, your candid opinion.'

'You will not be offended at anything I shall say?'

'No. I want an honest judgment, and I can trust yours.'

I used the common slang of criticism.

'Suppose, then, I were to say that the: composition is bad, the colour
crude, the whole work amateurish, the modelling thin and in places,
false, the----'

'Don't