After I had submitted my sketches and they were accepted by the architect, I had to go and sign my contract at the offices of John Downey & Son. There was a large room full of stenographers and bookkeepers, with a glass place on one side for the boss. John Downey came out to greet me. As we sat at a big table, he pushed toward me a long document, saying: “There’s your contract. If you’ll read it over and it is satisfactory, you’ve only to sign it and get your first payment.” I read it and reached for the pen to sign. He must have seen some doubt upon my face. “Is it satisfactory,” he asked. “No, but I’ll sign.” “Why, I drew that contract myself! What’s the matter with it?” “There is not enough time,” I replied. His eyes narrowed. “Mr. Simmons, you have lived a long time across the water? Yes? Let me tell you something about American business methods. Never complain over here that you haven’t enough time. If the job suits you, wade in and do it. If you can’t finish it yourself, put on more men and work nights!” “But there are things that can’t be done that way,” I insisted. “Sir, I’ve been a contractor for twenty years in New York City and if there is anything you cannot do that way, I should like to hear about it.” “Well,” I said, “I admit your business position, but I still believe that if you wanted a son and heir you would have to respect the old rule to wait nine months, and not put on more men and work nights.” Sensation among the blond typewriters! The working of a business man’s mind can never be guessed at beforehand. I painted two decorations for one of America’s foremost financiers. In making the sketches I was mindful of the fact that he was a pillar of an orthodox denomination of the strictest type, and, while I suggested a group of dancing figures, I was very careful to drape them sedately with several layers of chiffon. What was my surprise when the criticism came: “Mr. Simmons’s idea is very delightful, but the figures are not nude enough!” The late Andrew Carnegie was a good old-fashioned type of man who thought the God-given power to amass a large fortune was indication of an all-embracing good judgment and taste. I never met him but once. It was in ’91, at a show of pictures of the Society of American Artists. I was presented to this short, stout little man. “Mr. Carnegie” meant nothing to me, as I had just come straight from England, and his fame had not managed to penetrate the shores of Cornwall. He was most indifferent, did not like the exhibition very much, and announced that he has purchased the only good picture, pointing to an unimportant landscape. Abbot Thayer’s “Madonna” (which Clarence King said should have buckets under it to catch the dripping sentiment), a charming Thomas Dewing, a beautiful thing by Theodore Robinson, and others were all about him, so I ventured to tell the doughty Scotsman that he must be deeply ignorant on the subject of art. That naturally closed the interview.