Although the sun was approaching the horizon,its slanting rays found a young artist still bending over his easel.That his shoulders are broad is apparent at a glance;that upon them is placed a shapely head,well thatched with crisp black hair,is also seen at once;that the head is not an empty one is proved by the picture on the easel,which is sufficiently advanced to show correct and spirited drawing.A brain that can direct the hand how to do one thing well,is like a general who has occupied a strategic point which will give him the victory if he follows up his advantage.
A knock at the door is not answered at once by the intent and preoccupied artist,but its sharp and impatient repetition secures the rather reluctant invitation,"Come in,"and even as he spoke he bent forward to give another stroke.
"Six o'clock,and working still!"cried the intruder."You will keep the paint market active,if you achieve nothing else as an artist.""Heigho!Ik,is that you?"said he of the palette,good-naturedly;and rising slowly he gave a lingering look at his work,then turned and greeted his friend with the quiet cordiality of long and familiar acquaintance."What a marplot you are with your idle ways!"he added."Sit down here and make yourself useful for once by doing nothing nothing for ten minutes.I am in just the mood and have just the light for a bit of work which perhaps I can never do as well again,"and the artist returned promptly to his picture.
In greeting his friend he had revealed that he was above middle height,that he had full black eyes that were not only good for seeing,but could also,if he chose,give great emphasis to his words,and at times be even more expressive.A thick mustache covered his lip,but the rest of his face was cleanly shaven,and was strong and decided in its outlines rather than handsome.
"They say a woman's work is never done,"remarked Ik Stanton,dropping into the easiest chair in the studio,"and for this reason,were there no other,your muse is evidently of the feminine persuasion.
I also admit that she is a lady of great antiquity.Indeed I would place her nearer to the time when 'Adam delved and Eve span'than to the classic age.""My dear Ik,"responded the artist,"I am often at a loss to know whether I love or despise you most.If a little of the whirr of our great grandam's spinning wheel would only get into your brain the world might hear from you.You are a man of unbounded stomach and unbounded heart,and so you have won all there is of me except my head,and that disapproves of you.""A fig for the world!what good will it do me or it to have it hear from me?you ambitious fellows are already making such a din that the poor old world is half ready for Bedlam;and would go stark mad were it not for us quiet,easy-going people,who have time for a good dinner and a snack between meals.You've got a genius that's like a windmill in a trade wind,always in motion;you are worth more money than I shall ever have,but you are the greatest drudge in the studio building,and work as many hours as a house-painter.""When your brain once gets in motion,Ik,fiction will be its natural product.You must admit that I have not painted many pictures.""That is one of the things I complain of;I,your bosom friend and familiar,your,I might add,guardian angel--I,who have so often saved your life by quenching the flame of your consuming genius with a hearty dinner,have been able to obtain one picture only from you,and as one might draw a tooth.Your pictures are like old maid's children--they must be so perfect that they can't exist at all.But come,the ten minutes are up.Here's the programme for the evening--a drive in the Park and a little dinner at a cool restaurant near Thomas's Garden,and then the concert.That prince of musical caterers has made a fine selection for to-night,and,with the cigar stand on one side of us and the orchestra on the other,we are certain to kill a couple of hours that will die like swans.""You mention the cigar-stand first."
"Why not?Smoke is more real than empty sound.""Are you not equally empty,Ik,save after dinner?How have the preceding hours of this long day been killed?""Like boas.They have enfolded me with a weary weight.""The snakes in your comparison are larger than your pun,and the pun,rather than yourself,suggests a constrictor's squeeze.""Come,you are only abusing me to gain time,and you may gain too much.My horses have more mettle than their master,and may carry off my trap and groom to parts unknown,while you are wasting paint and words.You are like the animals at the Park,that are good-natured only after they are fed.So shut up your old paint shop,and come along;we will shorten our ride and lengthen our dinner."With mutual chaffing and laughter the young men at last went down to where a liveried coachman and a pair of handsome bays were in waiting.Taking the high front seat and gathering up the reins,Ik Stanton,with his friend Harold Van Berg at his side,bowled away towards the Park at a rapid pace.
Harold Van Berg was,in truth,something of a paradox.He was an artist,and yet was rich;he had inherited large wealth,and yet had formed habits of careful industry.The majority of his young acquaintances,who had been launched from homes like his own,were known only as sons of their fathers,and degenerate sons at that.
Van Berg was already winning a place among men on the ground of what he was and could do himself.