"The possibility of previous pictures is hardly likely to weigh with me.
Why, I would paint a drowned sailor if the subject attracted me, and that
though you have done it," answered the other, nodding toward a big canvas
in the corner, where Brady's picture for the year approached completion.

"My dear chap, we all worship Joan--at a distance. She is not to be
painted. Tears and prayers are useless. She has a flinty father--a
fisherman, who looks upon painting as a snare of the devil and sees every
artist already wriggling on the trident in his mind's eye. Joan has also a
lover, who would rather behold her dead than on canvas."

"In fact these Methodist folk take us to be what you really are," said
Brady bluntly. "Old Tregenza tars us every one with the same brush. We are
lost sinners all."

"Well, why trouble him? A fisherman would have his business on the sea.
Candidly, I must paint her. The wish grows upon me."

"Even money you don't get as much as a, sketch," said Murdoch.

"Have any of you tried approaching her directly, instead of her relations?"

"She's as shy as a hawk, man."

"That makes me the more hopeful. You fellows, with your Tam o' Shanters and
aggressive neckties and knickerbockers and calves, would frighten the
devil. I'm shy myself. If she's natural, then we shall possibly understand
each other."