“a Mr. Reineman—do you know which is his apartment?”
“Top floor, front, sir,” said Phillips.
“Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a few minutes.”
Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself.
“Mr. Reineman,” said he, “there is a little pastel sketch on yonder table. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its artistic merits and as a picture.”
The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair.
“How—do—you—find it?” he asked, slowly.
“As a drawing,” said the artist, “I can’t praise it enough. It’s the work of a master—bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; I haven’t seen any pastel work near as good in years.”
“The face, man—the subject—the original—what would you say of that?”
“The face,” said Reineman, “is the face of one of God’s own angels. May I ask who—”
“My wife!” shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon the astonished artist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. “She is traveling in Europe. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the picture of your life from it and leave the price to me.”
[31]
