human
Six weeks since you were here? I shouldn't have thought that. Bartlett's easel stands before the window, in the hotel parlour; he has laid a tint upon the canvas, and has retired a few paces for the effect, his palette and mahl-stick in hand, and his head carried at a critical angle. Cummings, who has been doing the duty of art-culture by the picture, regards it with renewed interest. Bartlett resumes his work:
gpt
Pretty good, Cummings?
human
Capital! The blue of that distance
gpt
Ah, I looked into my heart and painted for _that_! Well, you find me still here, Cummings, and apparently more at home than ever. The landlord has devoted this parlour to the cause of art,--makes the transients use the lower parlour, now,--and we have this all to ourselves: Miss Wyatt sketches, you know. Her mother brings her sewing, and the General his bruises; he hasn't quite scrambled up, yet, from that little knock-down of his; a man doesn't, at his time of life, I believe; and we make this our family-room; and a very queer family we are! Fine old fellow, the General; he's behaved himself since his accident like a disabled angel, and hasn't sworn,--well, anything worth speaking of. Yes, here I am. I suppose it's all right, but for all I know it may be all wrong. Bartlett sighs in unguarded sincerity.
human
Your picture.
gpt
Don't be sarcastic, Cummings.
human
I'm not, I assure you.
gpt
Do you mean to say that The First Grey Hair is liked?
human
I do. There hasn't been any picture so much talked of this season.
gpt
Then it's the shameless slop of the name. I should think you'd blush for your part in that swindle. But clergymen have _no_ conscience, where they've a chance to do a fellow a kindness, I've observed. He goes up to Cummings with his brush in his mouth, his palette on one hand, and his mahl-stick in the other, and contrives to lay hold of his shoulders with a few disengaged fingers. As Cummings shrinks a little from his embrace:
human
Oh, don't be afraid; I shan't get any paint on you. You need a whole coat of whitewash, though, you unscrupulous saint! He returns to his easel.
gpt
So The Old Girl--that's what I shall call the picture--is a success, is she? The admiring public ought to see the original elm-tree now; she hasn't got a hair, grey or green, on her head; she's perfectly bald. I say, Cummings, how would it do for me to paint a pendant, _The Last Grey Hair_? I might look up a leaf or two on the elm, somewhere: stick it on to the point of twig; they wouldn't know any better.
human
The leafless elm would make a good picture, whatever you called it. Bartlett throws back his shaggy head and laughs up at the ceiling.
gpt
The fact is, Bartlett, I've got a little surprise for you.
human
Somebody wanting to chromo The Old Girl? No, no; it isn't quite so bad as that!
gpt
They _did_ want to chromo it. But it's sold. They've got you two hundred dollars for it.