ertain 'em!" He adopted a descriptive
manner, and with his forefinger indicated various spaces of the wall.
"Here is a little thing I did in Brittany. Peasant woman in sabots. This
brown spot here is the peasant woman, and those two white things are the
sabots. Peasant woman in sabots, don't you see? Women in Brittany, of
course, all wear sabots, you understand. Convenience of the painters. I
see you are looking at that little thing I did in Morocco. Ah, you
admire it? Well, not so bad--not so bad. Arab smoking pipe, squatting in
doorway. This long streak here is the pipe. Clever, you say? Oh, thanks!
You are too kind. Well, all Arabs do that, you know. Sole occupation.
Convenience of the painters. Now, this little thing here I did in
Venice. Grand Canal, you know. Gondolier leaning on his oar. Convenience
of the painters. Oh, yes, American subjects are well enough, but hard to
find, you know--hard to find. Morocco, Venice, Brittany, Holland--all
oblige with colour, you know--quaint form--all that. We are so hideously
modern over here; and, besides, nobody has painted us much. How the
devil can I paint America when nobody has done it before me? My dear
sir, are you aware that that would be originality? Good heavens! we are
not aesthetic, you understand. Oh, yes, some good mind comes along and
understands a thing and does it, and after that it is aesthetic. Yes, of
course, but then--well---- Now, here is a little Holland thing of mine;
it----"

The others had evidently not been heeding him. "Shut up!" said Wrinkles
suddenly. "Listen!" Grief paused his harangue and they sat in silence,
their lips apart, their eyes from time to time exchanging eloquent
messages. A dulled melodious babble came from Hawker's studio.

At length Pennoyer murmured wistfully, "I would like to see her."

Wrinkles started noiselessly to his feet. "Well, I tell you she's a
peach. I was going up the steps, you know, with a loaf of bread under my
arm, when I chanced to look up the street and saw Billie and Hollanden
coming with four of them."

"Three," said Grief.

"Four; and I tell you I scattered. One of the two with Billie was a
peach--a peach."

"O, Lord!" groaned the others enviously. "Billie's in luck."

"How do you know?" said Wrinkles. "Billie is a blamed good fellow, but
that doesn't say she will care for him--more likely that she won't."

They sat again in silence, grinning, and listening to the murmur of
voices.

There came the