that came from your seeing an organ-grinder looking up at a window! Vigil! Ha, ha! You just started painting on the chance of something coming—that's what you did. And when I saw you at it I came. I want a talk with you!'
'Art, with you,' said the picture—'it's a poor business. You potter. I don't know how it is, but you don't seem able to throw your soul into it. You know too much. It hampers you. In the midst of your enthusiasms you ask yourself whether something like this has not been done before. And . . .'
'Look here,' said Harringay, who had expected something better than criticism from the devil. 'Are you going to talk studio to me?' He filled his number twelve hoghair with red paint.
'The true artist,' said the picture, 'is always an ignorant man. An artist who theorises about his work is no longer artist but critic. Wagner . . . I say!—What's that red paint for?'
'I'm going to paint you out,' said Harringay. 'I don't want to hear all that Tommy Rot. If you think just because I'm an artist by trade I'm going to talk studio to you, you make a precious mistake.'
'One minute,' said the picture, evidently alarmed. 'I want to make you an offer—a genuine offer. It's right what I'm saying. You lack inspirations. Well. No doubt you've heard of the Cathedral of Cologne, and the Devil's Bridge, and'
'Rubbish,' said Harringay. 'Do you think I want to go to perdition simply for the pleasure of painting a good picture, and getting it slated. Take that.'
His blood was up. His danger only nerved him to action, so he says. So he planted a dab of vermilion in his creature's mouth. The Italian spluttered and tried to wipe it off—evidently horribly surprised. And then
