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1884.] ed to represent shipwrecks, Christian martyrs, and the Paul-and-Virginia sort of thing. There was one fine-looking young man, too, who had quite a reputation for crucifixions: nobody thought of painting one without him. The Del Sarto school of expression graduate some fine models. There was one lady, who afterward became a tragic actress of note, who used to give a suicide, which was quite the rage until half a dozen artists had exhibited it at the Salon, when it rather lost in freshness and finally went out of fashion. No doubt we shall have all the departments here in time. Have you ever met our ancient friend with the venerable beard who has posed so many times for busts of Bryant? The resemblance is quite striking. Calef Moore painted him as a dancing dervish, and I believe Temple has roped him in among his prophets as Ezekiel in one of the churches which he has been decorating. That beard of his is a valuable bit of theatrical property; but it rather limits him, too: he has to confine himself to Lear, and can't take it off at will and play Hamlet on alternate nights. The trouble with the professionals is that they are professionals. If one could only find a fresh face that was a real inspiration, and could get a copyright on it!"

"That is what we are all looking for," said Blunt, and his fine eyes twinkled roguishly. They were his best feature. In form he suggested the amateur athlete, rather than the man of intellectual pursuits, and his soft hair, clipped short, stood up like plush over his well-shaped head.

Mr. Crittenden drew the ragged ends of his long moustache within his thin lips, after an unpleasant habit of his, and nibbled them reflectively. "My dear fellow," he remarked, speaking very slowly, "I thought that was what you artists always did when you married."

Little Westminster flushed painfully. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Crittenden," he replied, with all the loftiness which only a little man can assume, "but we artists sometimes forget the shop so far as to marry for love, and not with an eye to future professional utility."

"Why don't you draw on some of your lady-friends?" suggested Blunt. "I know loads of nice girls who would think posing for an artist a jolly lark, and who would feel genuinely complimented by having a flattering portrait hung at the Academy."

"Yes; but what if the portrait did not happen to be flattering? What if the pose you desired were a difficult one? My dear fellow, if you were never punished at school by being obliged to hold a ferule straight out from your body for five minutes, you have no idea of the physical endurance necessary for the strain. Once, when I was painting a portrait, and had just warmed up to my work and flattered myself that with an hour more I could produce something really worth while, I saw my amateur sitter droop, turn pale, and actually faint away outright on my model-stand. No, sir. Women, lovely women, are all very well as inspirations and all that; but when I paint I prefer to follow my own ideal rather than be bothered by any particular bundle of frail femininity. I appeal to you, Mr. Crittenden, as a connoisseur and a fastidious critic, is not this picture, which I call 'The Rose of May,' unfinished as it is, superior to a brutal study from the life?"

"Unquestionably," replied Mr. Crittenden somewhat flurriedly: "at least, it undoubtedly will be superior when it is finished."

"It is finished now," replied Little Westminster testily. "I would sooner run a knife through that canvas than put brush to it again."

Mr. Crittenden waved his hand apologetically. "A most exquisite idea," he murmured. "What is it that Rossetti says ?—or is it Morris?—

"The mouth is just what I object to," said Blunt, coming forward impulsively: "it's out of drawing."

"Now, Blunt, you are too bad!"