Beshrew me if I do
not take to pot-boiling!"
Down by the water-side a lady sat, sketching in water-colours for dear
life; around her lay a litter of half-finished works, scattered like
autumn leaves in Vallombrosa. I approached her, quite friendly, and
offered to gather them up for her--at least some of them, saying
soothingly, for I saw she was in a temper--
"Dear, dear, Clara, why, what _is_ the matter?"
"I am painting the Venice of the East," she cried petulantly, "but for the
life of me I can't see a campanile, and how can I possibly paint a picture
without a campanile?"
I understood that, of course, she couldn't, so I stole away softly on
tip-toe, leaving her turning doungas into gondolas for all she was worth.
A dark, dapper man, with an alert air and an eyeglass, sat near the
seventh bridge, writing. Beside him stood an easel and other painting-gear.
I asked him what he was doing, and he answered, with a fine smile, "I am
gently making enemies;" so, to turn the subject, I picked up a large
canvas, smeared over with invisible grey, like the broadside of a modern
battleship, and sprinkled here and there with pale yellow blobs.
"What have we here, James?" I inquired cheerfully, and he, staying his
claw-like hand in mid-air, made reply--
"A chromatic in tones of sad colour, with golden accidentals--Kashmir
night-lights."
"Ah! quite so," I exclaimed; "but have I got it right side up?"
He looked at it doubtfully for a moment, then, pointing to a remarkable
butterfly (_Vanessa Sifflerius_) depicted in the corner, cried: "It's all
right; you'll never make a mistake if you keep this insect in the _right
bottom corner_.
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