The artist named was thirty-five and had been in Paris fifteen years.
Gethryn was twenty-two and had been studying three years.

Why are you not doing beautiful things, like Mr Mousely? I'm told
he gets a thousand dollars for a little sketch.

Rex groaned. Mr Mousely could neither draw nor paint, but he made
stories of babies' deathbeds on squares of canvas with china angels
solidly suspended from the ceiling of the nursery, pointing upward,
and he gave them titles out of the hymnbook, which caused them to be
bought with eagerness by all the members of the congregation to which
his family belonged.

The letter proceeded:

I am told by many reliable persons that three years abroad is more
than enough for a thorough art education. If no results are
attained at the end of that time, there is only one of two
conclusions to be drawn. Either you have no talent, or you are
wasting your time. I shall wait until the next Salon before I come
to a decision. If then you have a picture accepted and if it shows
no trace of the immorality which is rife in Paris, I will continue
your allowance for three years more; this, however, on condition
that you have a picture in the Salon each year. If you fail again
this year, I shall insist upon your coming home at once.

Why Gethryn should want to read this letter four times, when one
perusal of it had been more than enough, no one, least of all himself,
could have told. He sat now crushing it in is hand, tasting all the