His mind had been full of fine resolutions. He would engage a good
teacher, some competent artist whom fortune had not treated well and
who would be glad of the job--Washington Square and its neighbourhood
were full of them--and settle down grimly, working regular hours, to
recover lost ground.
But the rush of life, as lived on the upper avenue, had swept him away.
He had been carried along on the rapids of dinners, parties, dances,
theatres, luncheons, and the rest, and his great resolve had gone
bobbing away from him on the current.
He had recovered it now and climbed painfully ashore, feeling bruised
and exhausted, but determined.
* * * * *
Among the motley crowd which had made the studio a home in the days of
Kirk's bachelorhood had been an artist--one might almost say an
ex-artist--named Robert Dwight Penway. An over-fondness for rye whisky
at the Brevoort cafe had handicapped Robert as an active force in the
world of New York art. As a practical worker he was not greatly
esteemed--least of all by the editors of magazines, who had paid
advance cheques to him for work which, when delivered at all, was
delivered too late for publication. These, once bitten, were now twice
shy of Mr. Penway. They did not deny his great talents, which were,
indeed, indisputable; but they were fixed in their determination not to
make use of them.
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