The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a military model had
just gone away. The watery autumn sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the
corners of the studio.
"Yes," said Dick, deliberately, "I like the power; I like the fun; I like the
fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make the
fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer gang,--an amazingly queer
gang!"
"They have been good enough to you, at any rate. That tin-pot exhibition of
your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the 'Wild
Work Show'?"
"Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word, I
believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist. I
should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or scratched them
on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and colour. Verily, they
are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn't the word to describe 'em. I met
a fellow the other day who told me that it was impossible that shadows on white
sand should be blue,--ultramarine,--as they are. I found out, later, that the
man had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him.
He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to learn
technique.
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