Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped
quietly out of the building.
The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively smoking his
pipe on the front porch, with Czar lying at his feet.
"Well," said the painter, curiously,--anxious, as he had said, to have it
over,--"why the deuce don't you _say_ something?"
The novelist answered slowly, "My vocabulary is too limited, for one
reason, and"--he looked thoughtfully down at Czar--"I prefer to wait until
you have finished the portrait."
"It _is_ finished," returned the artist desperately. "I swear I'll never
touch a brush to the damned thing again."
The man with the pipe spoke to the dog at his feet; "Listen to him,
Czar--listen to the poor devil of a painter-man."
The dog arose, and, placing his head upon his master's knee, looked up
into the lined and rugged face, as the novelist continued, "If he was only
a wee bit puffed up and cocky over the thing, now, we could exert
ourselves, so we could, couldn't we?" Czar slowly waved a feathery tail in
dignified approval. His master continued, "But when a fellow can do a
crime like that, and still retain enough virtue in his heart to hear his
work shrieking to heaven its curses upon him for calling it into
existence, it's best for outsiders to keep quite still.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157