he 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."

So saying, the stranger departed, leaving Brown not a whit better
impressed with him than at first.

The next morning the two called again, when the gentleman made an
examination of the room selected the day before, having met Mr. Brown
in the hall-way and invited him in. On entering, the new occupant took
from his pocket a piece of chalk and a compass and made a number of
circles and figures on the floor to determine when the sun would shine
in the room. Brown watched him with a certain degree of curiosity and
amusement, and finally, concluding he was half crazy, returned to his
own studio.

The next day the cicerone called alone to see about some repairs, when
Brown hailed him: "_Buono giorno. Che e questo_?" ("Good-day. Who is
that?")

"_Non sapete_?" ("Don't you know?"), was the Italian's response. "Why,
that is the celebrated Brullof."

Brown started as though shot. First there flashed through his brain
the remembrance of how cavalierly he had treated the distinguished
artist, and then a quick panorama of his recent history, which had
been the gossip of studios and art-circles for some time back. "I must
go to him," he said, "and apologize for not treating him with more
deference."

"_Non, signore_," was the cicerone's response. "Never mind: let it
rest. He is a man of the world, and pays little heed to such things.
Besides, he is so overwhelmed with his private griefs that he has
probably noticed no slight."

However, when the great Russian artist took possession of his studio
his American brother of the pencil made his apology, and received this
response; "Don't waste words on so trivial a matter. Do I not court
the contempt of a world th