too
soon; and the crowd admires, and those who know smile.

"Oh, Mabuse! oh, my master!" cried the strange speaker, "thou art a
thief! Thou hast carried away the secret of life with thee!"

"Nevertheless," he began again, "this picture of yours is worth more
than all the paintings of that rascal Rubens, with his mountains of
Flemish flesh raddled with vermilion, his torrents of red hair, his riot
of color. You, at least have color there, and feeling and drawing--the
three essentials in art."

The young man roused himself from his deep musings.

"Why, my good man, the Saint is sublime!" he cried. "There is a subtlety
of imagination about those two figures, the Saint Mary and the Shipman,
that can not be found among Italian masters; I do not know a single one
of them capable of imagining the Shipman's hesitation."

"Did that little malapert come with you?" asked Porbus of the older man.

"Alas! master, pardon my boldness," cried the neophyte, and the color
mounted to his face. "I am unknown--a dauber by instinct, and but lately
come to this city--the fountain-head of all learning."

"Set to work," said Porbus, handing him a bit of red chalk and a sheet
of paper.

The new-comer quickly sketched the Saint Mary line for line.

"Aha!" exclaimed the old man. "Your name?" he added.

The young man wrote "Nicolas Poussin" below the sketch.

"Not bad that for a beginning," said the strange speaker, who had
discoursed so wildly. "I see that we can talk of art in your presence.
I do not blame you for admiring Porbus's saint. In the eyes of the world
she is a masterpiece, and those alone who have been initiated into the
inmost mysteries of art can discover her shortcomings. But it is worth
while to give you the lesson, for you are able to understand it, so I
will show you how little it needs to complete this picture. You must be
all eyes, all attention, for it may be that such a chance of learning
will never come in your way again--Porbus! your palette."

Porbus went in search of palette and brushes. The little old man turned
back his sleeves with impatient energy, seized the palette, covered with
many hues, that Porbus handed to him, and snatched rather than took a
handful of brushes of various sizes from the hands of his acquaintance.
His pointed beard suddenly bristled--a menacing movement that expressed
the prick of a lover's fancy. As he loaded his brush, he muttered
between his teeth, "These paints are only fit to