any recognition of my work is concerned," responded the artist cheerfully.
"You have not been working long enough."
"Ever since I came back to America. That is four whole years. I haven't exhibited a single picture, nor sold one. But I'm having a beautiful time. Maybe if it weren't so hopeless I should not be so enthusiastic about it."
"That is hard philosophy," said Mrs. Kent, with her sad little smile. "Do you suppose that I could apply it in my charity work?"
It was a peculiar room. The old-fashioned furniture had brought into the world of art a suggestion of serious and ascetic New England life. A tall old clock stood by the cast of Psyche. The cherry desk, where the artist's father had written sermons for thirty years, was crowned by a Venus de Milo. From claw-footed table and high-backed chairs reminders of the Vermont parsonage stole across the warmth and colour of the studio. Over the door
