“’Tis our market, ladies,” he said in apology. “I must be particular in its custody. We deal in new lamps for old; in”-- He descended a few steps, then turned again. “Ah!” he groaned, tragic and comical in one. “Pity the poor genii who has to serve; pity him--pity him.” He heaved a sigh that would have turned a windmill, and followed the picture, and disappeared. “Patty!” I whispered, when he was gone--“Patty! Lord, Patty! who _is_ the creature?” “I’m terrified of him,” she gulped. “He’s Mr. de Crespigny’s dog, he calls himself, and follows his master everywhere, loving and growling at him. He used to say there was no such painter in the world, if he could be kept to it; but he always frightened me dreadfully. I do hope they won’t stop long.” “H’m!” I said. “And is that queer name all he’s got?” “I never heard of another,” she answered. “But anyhow, it suits him.” “Yes,” I said--and sighed--“_if_ he only had legs!” IX. I AM COMMITTED TO THE ---- I learned, as you shall understand, to readjust my first impression of de Crespigny. It is certain one must not judge the quality of the wine by the vessel. He was a great artist, who ran quickly to waste in the passions evoked of his own conceptions. From the mouth downwards he was a sensualist, and not fit to trust himself with a fair model. Shut into a monastery, he would have been a Fra Angelico. At the first he captured me, when once I was familiarised with the ungainly exterior of the creature. To see him work--ardent, engrossed, unerring in the early enthusiasm of a subject--was a revelation. He stood so slack, he ran so to moral exhaustion when delivered of his inspiration, it was impossible to recognise the master of a moment ago in this invertebrate body with the loose wrists and silly laugh. If he could only have been kept always at the high pressure of his conceptions! Sometimes I wondered if it was in me to make him great and hold him. It would have been splendid to be the Hamilton to this Romney. Yet in the end I found the game not worth the candle. He was soft wax, indeed, for seven-eighths of his length, and the littlest puff from red lips could blow all the flame out of his head.