truth which reacted upon his lively imagination. The old man worked on, muttering half to himself, half to his neophyte:
"Paf! paf! paf! that is how we butter it on, young man. Ah! my little pats, you are right; warm up that icy tone. Come, come!—pon, pon, pon—" he continued, touching up the spots where he had complained of a Jack of life, hiding under layers of color the conflicting methods, and regaining the unity of tone essential to an ardent Egyptian.
"Now see, my little friend, it is only the last touches of the brush that count for anything. Porbus put on a hundred; I have only put on one or two. Nobody will thank us for what is underneath, remember that!"
At last the demon paused; the old man turned to Porbus and Poussin, who stood mute with admiration, and said to them:
"It is not yet equal to my Beautiful Nut-girl; still, one can put one's name to such a work. Yes, I will sign it," he added, rising to fetch a mirror in which to look at what he had done. "Now let us go and breakfast. Come, both of you, to my house. I have some smoked ham and good wine. Hey! hey! in spite of the degenerate times we will talk painting; we are strong ourselves. Here is a little man," he continued, striking Nicolas Poussin on the shoulder, "who has the faculty."
