ters, much frayed, were appropriate
details of a costume inevitably topped off with an army slouch hat that
had long lacked the brush. He was immensely long and sallow, wore a
drooping moustache vaguely blonde, between the unkempt curtains of which
a thin cheroot pointed heavenward. As he walked nervously up and down,
with a suspiciously stilted gait, he observed Rosenheim with evident
scorn and the picture with a strange pride. He was not merely odd, but
also offensive, for as Rosenheim whispered _'Comme c'est beau_!' there
was an unmistakable snort; when he continued, _'Mais c'est exquis_!' the
snort broadened into a mighty chuckle; while as he concluded 'Most
luminous!' the chuckle became articulate, in an 'Oh, shucks!' that could
not be ignored.

"'You seem to be interested, sir,' Rosenheim remarked. 'You bet!' was the
terse response. 'May I inquire the cause of your concern?' Rosenheim
continued placidly. With a most exasperating air of willingness to
please, the stranger rejoined: 'Why, I jest took a simple pleasure, sir,
in seeing an amachoor like you talking French about a little thing I
painted here in Cedar Street.' For a moment Rosenheim was too indignant
to speak, then he burst out with: 'It's an infernal lie; you could no
more paint that picture than you could fly.' 'I did paint it, jest the
same,' pursued the stranger imperturbably, as Rosenheim, to make an end
of the insufferable wag, snapped out sarcastically, 'Perhaps you painted
its mate, then, the Bolton Corot.' 'The one that sold for three thousand
dollars last week? Of course I painted it; it's the best nymph scene I
ever done. Don't get mad, mister; I paint most of the Corots. I'm glad
you like 'em.'

"For a moment I feared that little Rosenheim would smite the lank annoyer
dead in his tracks. 'For heaven's sake be careful!' I cried. 'The man is
drunk or crazy or he may even be right; the paint on this picture isn't
two days old.' 'Correct,' declared the stranger. 'I finished it day
before yesterday for this sale.' Then a marked change came over
Rosenheim's manner. He grew positively deferential. It delighted him to
meet an artist of talent; they must know each other better. Cards were
exchanged, and Rosenheim read with amazement the grimy inscription
'_Campbell Corot, Landscape Artist_.' 'Yes, that's my painting name,'
Campbell Corot said modestly; 'and my pictures are almost equally as good
as his'n, but not quite. They do for ordinary household