Young Fitzgibbon was very white in the face.  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” he said.

“It’s just as well,” said Bailey.

THE TEMPTATION OF HARRINGAY

It is quite impossible to say whether this thing really happened.  It depends entirely on the word of R.M.  Harringay, who is an artist.

Following his version of the affair, the narrative deposes that Harringay went into his studio about ten o’clock to see what he could make of the head that he had been working at the day before.  The head in question was that of an Italian organ-grinder, and Harringay thought—­but was not quite sure—­that the title would be the “Vigil.”  So far he is frank, and his narrative bears the stamp of truth.  He had seen the man expectant for pennies, and with a promptness that suggested genius, had had him in at once.

“Kneel.  Look up at that bracket,” said Harringay.  “As if you expected pennies.”

“Don’t grin!” said Harringay.  “I don’t want to paint your gums.  Look as though you were unhappy.”

Now, after a night’s rest, the picture proved decidedly unsatisfactory.  “It’s good work,” said Harringay.  “That little bit in the neck ...  But.”

He walked about the studio and looked at the thing from this point and from that.  Then he said a wicked word.  In the original the word is given.

“Painting,” he says he said.  “Just a painting of an organ-grinder—­a mere portrait.  If it was a live organ-grinder I wouldn’t mind.  But somehow I never make things alive.  I wonder if my imagination is wrong.”  This, too, has a truthful air.  His imagination is wrong.

“That creative touch!  To take canvas and pigment and make a man—­as Adam was made of red ochre!  But this thing!  If you met it walking about the streets you would know it was only a studio production.  The little boys would tell it to ‘Garnome and git frimed.’  Some little touch ...  Well—­it won’t do as it is.”

He went to the blinds and began to pull them down.  They were made of blue holland with the rollers at the bottom of the window, so that you pull them down to get more light.  He gathered his palette, brushes, and mahl stick from his table.  Then he turned to the picture and put a speck of brown in the corner of the mouth; and shifted his attention thence to the pupil of the eye.  Then he decided that the chin was a trifle too impassive for a vigil.

Presently he put down his impedimenta, and lighting a pipe surveyed the progress of his work.  “I’m hanged if the thing isn’t sneering at me,” said Harringay, and he still believes it sneered.

The animation of the figure had certainly increased, but scarcely in the direction he wished.  There was no mistake about the sneer.  “Vigil of the Unbeliever,” said Harringay.  “Rather subtle and clever that!  But the left eyebrow isn’t cynical enough.”