"I've been having my portrait painted too, M. Sevier," Floyd said to him innocently, setting Stewart's masterpiece up against the book-shelves.
M. Sevier bowed and smiled. Colonel Halket put on his glasses and paced off to get the range.
"Ah—yes," he said conservatively, "he's caught a likeness—eh, M. Sevier? Eh"—he added in a more doubtful tone as the Frenchman did not answer—"eh, M. Sevier?"
"Of a blue cravat and a pearl pin—yes," agreed M. Sevier politely.
"You don't think much of it?" Floyd asked.
M. Sevier shrugged his shoulders and spread out his palms. "What can I say?"
"Of course it's only by an amateur painter," Floyd explained. "Is n't it pretty good for an amateur?"
Again M. Sevier shrugged his shoulders. "Oh—perhaps."
"M. Sevier has seen it before," Colonel Halket said. "It was here when he first came—and," he added, with a faint smile, "he felt obliged to turn it to the wall."
"Pardon," said the Frenchman, bowing to Floyd. "Yes, I so far forgot myself."
Floyd laughed. "Well—it must hurt to look at a face like that. But—if you don't mind telling me—what's out about it, M. Sevier?"
"It is not you—and it is not a picture, Mr. Halket," replied the painter. "Therefore it is not good. But see—the face, it is of wood, and stares; it is of no interest, it is nothing. But it is a very careful coat—and flower in the button-hole, and pearl pin, and cravat. They are all of an interest equal with the face."
"But," insisted Floyd, "does n't it really show a lot of talent—in an amateur?"
"It would have shown more—not to paint it."
Floyd thought of Stewart's large ambition expressed that afternoon, to be the painter of Labor, and looked
