They wanted something more restful, with a little more colour. I could
have said a good deal, but you might as well talk to a sheep as an art-manager.
I took my 'Last Shot' back. Behold the result! I put him into a lovely red coat
without a speck on it. That is Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high
light on the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle,--rifles are always clean on
service,--because that is Art. I pipeclayed his helmet,--pipeclay is always
used on active service, and is indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I
washed his hands, and gave him an air of fatted peace. Result, military
tailor's pattern-plate. Price, thank Heaven, twice as much as for the first
sketch, which was moderately decent."
"And do you suppose you're going to give that thing out as your work?"
"Why not? I did it. Alone I did it, in the interests of sacred, home-bred Art
and Dickenson's Weekly."
Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then came the verdict, delivered from
rolling clouds: "If you were only a mass of blathering vanity, Dick, I wouldn't
mind,--I'd let you go to the deuce on your own mahl-stick; but when I consider
what you are to me, and when I find that to vanity you add the twopenny-
halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf.
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