you can't do it again; you got it by fluke, some stray tints off your
palette, _savez vous_," and, taking the biggest brush I had, he swept
over that palette and produced enough of the desired tints to have
covered a dozen foreheads.

The comrade without arms was a most assiduous worker; it was amusing
to watch his mittened feet step out of their shoes and at the shortest
notice proceed to do duty as hands; his nimble toes would screw and
unscrew the tops of the colour tubes or handle the brush as steadily
as the best and deftest of fingers could have done. Very much unlike
any of us, he was most punctilious in the care he bestowed on his
paint box, as also on his personal appearance. Maris, Neuhuys,
Heyermans, and one or two others equally gifted, but whose thread of
life was soon to be cut short, were painting splendid studies, some
of which I was fortunate enough to rescue from destruction and have
happily preserved.

Quite worthy to be placed next to these are Van-der-something's
studies. That (or something like that) was the name of a wiry, active
little man who in those days painted in a garret; there everything
was disarranged chaotically, mostly on the floor, for there was no
furniture that I can recollect beyond a stool, an easel, and a fine
old looking-glass. He had a house, though, and a wife, in marked
contrast with his appearance and the garret. The house was not badly
appointed, and she was lavishly endowed with an exuberance of charms
and graces characteristic of a Rubens model.

A fellow-student of mine was their lodger, a handsome young German,
brimful of talent, but sadly deficient in health. He had always held
most rigid principles on questions of morality, but unfortunately