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his profession, but because it gives him an opportunity of coming into contact with other bright, vivacious spirits." She took Gertie's coat and hat. "Perhaps we can get him to tell us some of his best stories presently." Her husband smoothed his hair at the mirror with both hands, and gave style and uniformity to the two halves of his moustache. This done, he turned and asked the girl whether she did not consider Whistler an overrated artist. Just because he happened to be dead, people raved about him. Would not allow any one else to produce impressions of the Thames round about Chelsea. Mr. Jacks said, rather bitterly, that when he too was no more, folk would doubtless be going mad about him, and Jubilee Place might become impassable owing to the crowd of dealers waiting their turn there. "And what good do you imagine that will do to me?" he demanded. "Eh, what? No use you saying that I ought to be content with the praise of posterity." "I didn't say so. How many hours do you work a day?" "I can't work unless the fit takes me," argued Madame's husband weakly. "Are you subject to them? Fits, I mean?" Madame, assisting the maid in setting the table, took up the case for the defence, and pointed out to Miss Higham that one profession differed from another. In the case of painting, for instance, you could not expect to be ruled by office hours; you had to wait until inspiration came, and then the light was, perhaps, not exactly what you required. Besides, friends might drop in at that moment for a smoke and a chat. "Sounds like an easy life," remarked Gertie. "You forget the wear and tear of the brain," said Madame. "But we get that in our business." "Hush!" whispered the other. "He doesn't like hearing that referred to." Conversation during the meal was restricted to the subject of the production of pictures and their subsequent disposal; Madame showed great deference to the arguments of her husband, occasionally interposing a mild suggestion which he had no difficulty in knocking down. At moments of excited contention Madame's husband became inarticulate, and had to fall back upon the gestures of the studio, that conveyed nothing to the visitor. "How much do you make a year?" she asked, when an opportunity came. He paused in his task of opening another bottle of stout, and regarded her with something of surprise. "My good girl," he replied, "I don't estimate my results by pou
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