He regarded the picture with the stony stare of the Sphinx for what appeared to Joe Randall to be an eternity, and then, turning suddenly towards him, said, with astounding candor—perfected by a long and constant cultivation,—“Personally, I don’t like your picture at all: It is a landscape, even if there are two unimportant little figures in it, and landscapes, however well done, are of little consequence and prove nothing. This one, with the exception of the distance, which is passably good, is not comprehensively treated; the foreground is not at all right in values and doesn’t explain itself; it is, in fact, a wretched piece of work and spoils whatever small merit there may be in the picture. Can’t you yourself see that it does so?” Randall had thought his picture fairly good when he had taken it away from his poor little studio in the Latin Quarter that morning, but here, in the midst of all these gorgeous surroundings, he had to admit that it looked insignificant enough. “If I were in your place,” the Master continued, “I should not waste any more time on _that_ production, but would paint a figure piece—a Jeanne d’Arc, or some classical, or Biblical subject: pictures of this kind always create a sensation in the Salon, and—get three-fourths of the recompenses besides,” he added shrewdly. “But it is too late to do that this year,” answered Joe; “there is barely a month before the pictures must be sent to the Palais de l’Industrie.” “That is true,” admitted the Master wearily. “I must send this picture in,” continued Joe, “or nothing.” “Then,” replied the Master promptly, “I would send in nothing.” Randall was silenced and thoroughly discouraged by this rejoinder. He thought bitterly over his want of success. He had sent pictures to the three preceding Salons, and all of them had been declined. If he followed the advice just given him he would have to wait a whole year before he would have another chance to make his bow to the public as a real, a professional painter. It was too maddening and the more he thought about it the more miserable he became. He showed this state of feeling plainly in his face, and the Master forgot himself long enough to notice it, and to his own very great astonishment was touched. “Is it very important that you should exhibit something this year?” he inquired in a kinder voice. “Yes,” replied Joe, nearly bursting into tears, “it is of the _utmost_ importance to me. I have been refused for three years in succession, and if I do not get something into the Salon this spring, my father will think that my picture has been rejected again, and will probably send for me to come home and make me give up art.” “In that case,” said the Master firmly, “_we must get you in_.” He walked over to his Louis XV desk and picked up a small red note-book, bound in Russia leather, which was filled with the names of his private pupils and alphabetically and conveniently arranged.