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at all; hed have shown you where your drawing was bad. He doesnt care for what he calls the literature of a thing; he says that will take care of itself if the drawings good. He doesnt like my doing these chic things; but Im going to keep it up, for I think its the nearest way to illustrating." She took her sketch and pinned it up on the door. "And has Mr. Beaton been about, yet?" asked her mother. "No," said the girl, with her back still turned; and she added, "I believe hes in New York; Mr. Wetmores seen him." "Its a little strange he doesnt call." "It would be if he were not an artist. But artists never do anything like other people. He was on his good behavior while he was with us, and hes a great deal more conventional than most of them; but even he cant keep it up. Thats what makes me really think that women can never amount to anything in art. They keep all their appointments, and fulfil all their duties just as if they didnt know anything about art. Well, most of them dont. Weve got that new model to-day." "What new model?" "The one Mr. Wetmore was telling us about the old German; hes splendid. Hes got the most beautiful head; just like the old masters things. He used to be Humphrey Williamss model for his Biblical-pieces; but since hes dead, the old man hardly gets anything to do. Mr. Wetmore says there isnt anybody in the Bible that Williams didnt paint him as. Hes the Law and the Prophets in all his Old Testament pictures, and hes Joseph, Peter, Judas Iscariot, and the Scribes and Pharisees in the New." "Its a good thing people dont know how artists work, or some of the most sacred pictures would have no influence," said Mrs. Leighton. "Why, of course not!" cried the girl. "And the influence is the last thing a painter thinks of--or supposes he thinks of. What he knows hes anxious about is the drawing and the color. But people will never understand how simple artists are. When I reflect what a complex and sophisticated being I am, Im afraid I can never come to anything in art. Or I should be if I hadnt genius." "Do you think Mr. Beaton is very simple?" asked Mrs. Leighton. "Mr. Wetmore doesnt think hes very much of an artist. He thinks he talks too well. They believe that if a man can express himself clearly he cant paint." "And what do you believe?" "Oh, I can express myself, too." The mother seemed to be satisfied with this evasion. After a while she said, "I presume he will call when he gets settled." The girl made no answer to this. "One of the girls says that old model is an educated man. He was in the war, and lost a hand. Doesnt it seem a pity for such a man to have to sit to a class of affected geese like us as a model? I declare it makes me sick. And we shall keep him a week, and pay him six or seven dollars for the use of his grand old head, and then what will he do? The last time he was regularly employed was when Mr. Mace was working at his Damascus Massacre. Then he wanted so many Arab sheiks and Christian elders that he kept old Mr. Lindau steadily employed for six months. Now he has to pick up odd jobs where he can." "I suppose he has his pension," said Mrs. Leighton. "No; one of the girls"--that was the way Alma always described her fellow-students--"says he has no pension. He didnt apply for it for a long time, and then there was a hitch about it, and it was somethinged--vetoed, I believe she said." "Who vetoed it?" asked Mrs. Leighton, with some curiosity about the process, which she held in reserve. "I dont know-whoever vetoes things. I wonder what Mr. Wetmore does think of us--his class. We must seem perfectly crazy. There isnt one of us really knows what shes doing it for, or what she expects to happen when shes done it. I suppose every one thinks she has genius. I know the Nebraska widow does, for she says that unless you have genius it isnt the least use. Everybodys puzzled to know what she does with her baby when shes at work--whether she gives it soothing syrup. I wonder how Mr. Wetmore can keep from laughing in our faces. I

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