for him as usual. And at ten o'clock the model came--that rough
man he's putting into the new picture, you know, sir; and I had to
send him away, when he'd waited more than an hour."

Warburton was puzzled.

"I'll take my turn at waiting," he said. "Will you please light the
gas for me in the studio?"

The studio was merely, in lodging-house language, the first floor
front; a two-windowed room, with the advantage of north light. On
the walls hung a few framed paintings, several unframed and
unfinished, water-colour sketches, studies in crayon, photographs,
and so on. In the midst stood the easel, supporting a large canvas,
the artist's work on which showed already in a state of hopeful
advancement. "The Slummer" was his provisional name for this
picture; he had not yet hit upon that more decorous title which
might suit the Academy catalogue. A glance discovered the subject.
In a typical London slum, between small and vile houses, which
lowered upon the narrow way, stood a tall, graceful, prettily-clad
young woman, obviously a visitant from other spheres; her one hand
carried a book, and the other was held by a ragged, cripple child,
who gazed up at her with a look of innocent adoration. Hard by stood
a miserable creature with an infant at her breast, she too adoring
the representative of health, wealth, and charity. Behind, a
costermonger, out of work, sprawled on the curbstone, viewing the
invader; he, with resentful eye, his lip suggestive of words
unreportable. Where the face of the central figure should have
shone, the canvas still remained blank.