Then he sought high and low for something to say, something that would be at once appropriate and entertaining. In vain. His wits seemed to have deserted him, his mind to have become a total and hopeless blank. In order readily and happily to manufacture polite conversation, one must have had experience. Elias had had none. Now, in despair, he saw himself reduced to taking refuge in the weather. “This--er--has been an unusually mild fall, Miss Redwood,” he ventured. “Yes, very,” she acquiesced. “But the summer--that was a scorcher, wasn't it?” “Yes, indeed, dreadful,” she assented. “You spent it in the country, I suppose?” “Oh, no; we staid in the city.” “Ah, did you? So did I.” “Indeed?” “Yes.” He waited for her to go on, but she did not go on. With a sense of deep discouragement, he concluded that he had entered a cul-de-sac. He must begin anew, and upon another topic. Presently, “I hope you are not getting tired,” he said. “Don't hesitate to rest as often as you like.” “Oh, thank you, no; I'm not tired yet,” she answered. “Generally,” he announced, standing off, closing one eye, and taking an observation over the end of his crayon, “generally people who aren't used to it, find sitting very irksome; and even regular models, whose business it is, want to get up every now and then, and stretch themselves. But the painter himself never wearies.” “Because he is so interested in his work, I suppose?” “Yes, of course. Why, sometimes, of a summer day, I've painted for thirteen or fourteen hours at a stretch--from dawn till sunset--and then only been sorry that I could paint no more.” “It must be delightful to have an occupation like that--one that is a constant source of pleasure. It's the same, isn't it, with all kinds of artists--with musicians and sculptors?” “Yes, and writers. I know a man who is a writer--writes stories and poems and that sort of thing--and his wife says she has to use main force to get him to leave his manuscripts. Writers have the advantage of painters in one respect--they don't need daylight. Indeed, I think many of them like lamp-light better. The lamp is sort of emblematic of their calling, just as the palette is of ours. I have read somewhere of quite a celebrated novelist--I forget his name--an Englishman, I believe--who shuts his blinds, and lights the gas, and works by gaslight even in broad day. That's curious, isn't it?” “And foolish, besides; because they say it's very unhealthful and very bad for the eyes. I should think his novels would be awfully morbid.” “I used to paint by gaslight when I was at the League. But I don't any more. It doesn't pay. In the daytime your colors all look false and unwholesome--hectic--as if they had the consumption. Of course, if you're merely sketching, or working in black and white, it's different.” “Did you study at the League?” “Yes; and also under Stainar, in his studio.” “Stainar? At Paris?”