goodly pages by Callan himself--seven
unreadable packed pages of a serial.

"As I was saying," Callan began again, "you ought to know me very well,
and I suppose you are acquainted with my books. As for the rest, I will
give you what material you want."

"But, my dear Callan," I said, "I've never tried my hand at that sort of
thing."

Callan silenced me with a wave of his hand.

"It struck both Fox and myself that your--your 'Jenkins' was just what
was wanted," he said; "of course, that was a study of a kind of
broken-down painter. But it was well done."

I bowed my head. Praise from Callan was best acknowledged in silence.

"You see, what we want, or rather what Fox wants," he explained, "is a
kind of series of studies of celebrities _chez eux_. Of course,
they are not broken down. But if you can treat them as you treated Jenkins
--get them in their studies, surrounded by what in their case stands for
the broken lay figures and the faded serge curtains--it will be exactly the
thing. It will be a new line, or rather--what is a great deal better,
mind you--an old line treated in a slightly, very slightly different
way. That's what the public wants."

"Ah, yes," I said, "that's what the public wants. But all the same, it's
been done time out of mind before. Why, I've seen photographs of you and
your arm-chair and your pen-wiper and so on, half a score of times in the
sixpenny magazines."

Callan again indicated bland superiority with a wave of his hand.

"You undervalue yourself," he said.

I murmured--"Thanks."

"This is to be--not a mere pandering to curiosity--but an attempt to get
at the inside of things--to get the atmosphere, so to speak; not merely
to catalogue furniture."

He was quoting from the prospectus of the new paper, and then cleared
his throat for the utterance of a tremendous truth.

"Photography--is not--Art," he remarked.

The fantastic side of our colloquy began to strike me.

"After all," I thought to myself, "why shouldn't that girl have played
at being a denizen of another sphere? She did it ever so much better
than Callan. She did it too well, I suppose."

"The price is very decent," Callan chimed in. "I don't know how much per
thousand, ...but...."

I found myself reckoning, against my will as it were.

"You'll do it, I suppose?" he said.

I thought of my debts ... "Why, yes, I suppose so," I answered. "But who
are the others that I am to provide with atmospheres?"

Call