with the idea of discussing
nocturnal art.

Mr. Watkins was mixing color with an air of great industry. Sant,
approaching more nearly, was surprised to see the color in question was
as harsh and brilliant an emerald green as it is possible to imagine.
Having cultivated an extreme sensibility to color from his earliest
years, he drew the air in sharply between his teeth at the very first
glimpse of this brew. Mr. Watkins turned round. He looked annoyed.

"What on earth are you going to do with that _beastly_ green?" said
Sant.

Mr. Watkins realized that his zeal to appear busy in the eyes of the
butler had evidently betrayed him into some technical error. He looked
at Sant and hesitated.

"Pardon my rudeness," said Sant; "but, really, that green is altogether
too amazing. It came as a shock. What _do_ you mean to do with it?"

Mr. Watkins was collecting his resources. Nothing could save the
situation but decision. "If you come here interrupting my work," he
said, "I'm a-goin' to paint your face with it."

Sant retired, for he was a humorist and a peaceful man. Going down the
hill he met Porson and Wainwright. "Either that man is a genius or he is
a dangerous lunatic," said he. "Just go up and look at his green." And
he continued his way, his countenance brightened by a pleasant
anticipation of a cheerful affray round an easel in the gloaming, and
the shedding of much green paint.

But to Porson and Wainwright Mr. Watkins was less aggressive, and
explained that the green was intended to be the first coating of his
picture. It was, he admitted, in response to a remark, an absolutely new
method, invented by himself.

Twilight deepened, first one then another star appeared. The rooks amid
the tall trees to the left of the house had long since lapsed into
slumberous silence, the house itself lost all the details of its
architecture and became a dark gray outline, and then the windows of
the salon shone out brilliantly, the conservatory was lighted up, and
here and there a bedroom window burnt yellow. Had any one approached the
easel in the park it would have been found deserted. One brief uncivil
word in brilliant green sullied the purity of its canvas. Mr. Watkins
was busy in the shrubbery with his assistant, who had discreetly joined
him from the carriage-drive.

Mr. Watkins was inclined to be self-congratulatory upon the ingenious
device by which he had carried all his apparatus boldly, and in the
sight of all