Brown, thinking this the easiest way of
ridding himself of the visitors, went in search of the landlord, who
came, and after a moment's conversation the whole party entered the
studio, much to its owner's displeasure.
The cicerone did most of the talking, though now and then the other
made a remark or two in broken Italian. But this was only for the
first few moments. He soon became oblivious of all save art, of which
one could see at a glance he was passionately fond. One of Mr. Brown's
pictures--a large one he was then engaged on--particularly attracted
his attention. He drew closer and closer to the canvas, examining it
with a minuteness that showed the connoisseur, and finally remarked:
"It is very fine in color, sir, and the atmosphere is delicious. Why
have I not heard of you before?" examining the corner of the canvas
for the artist's name, but speaking in a tone and with an air that
gave Brown the impression he was indulging in the random flattery so
current in studios. So, ignoring the question, he asked with a slight
shrug of the shoulders, "Are you an artist?"
"I paint a little," was the reply, with an air of modesty which Brown
mistook for the bashful half-assertion of some daubing amateur.
Just then the cicerone came forward and announced that the bargain was
completed and the room ready for occupancy.
"I shall be happy--no, _happy_ is not a good word for me--I shall be
glad to see you in my studio when I have moved in, and perhaps you may
see some things to please you.
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