said Harringay. "As if you expected pennies."
"Don't grin!" said Harringay. "I don't want to paint your gums. Look as though you were unhappy."
Now, after a night's rest, the picture proved decidedly unsatisfactory. "It's good work," said Harringay. "That little bit in the neck ... But."
He walked about the studio and looked at the thing from this point and from that. Then he said a wicked word. In the original the word is given.
"Painting," he says he said. "Just a painting of an organ-grinder—a mere portrait. If it was a live organ-grinder I wouldn't mind. But somehow I never make things alive. I wonder if my imagination is wrong." This, too, has a truthful air. His imagination is wrong.
"That creative touch! To take canvas and pigment and make a man—as Adam was made of red ochre! But this thing! If you met it walking about the streets
