“Do you think Mr. Beaton is very simple?” asked Mrs. Leighton.

“Mr. Wetmore doesn’t think he’s very much of an artist.  He thinks he talks too well.  They believe that if a man can express himself clearly he can’t paint.”

“And what do you believe?”

“Oh, I can express myself, too.”

The mother seemed to be satisfied with this evasion.  After a while she said, “I presume he will call when he gets settled.”

The girl made no answer to this.  “One of the girls says that old model is an educated man.  He was in the war, and lost a hand.  Doesn’t it seem a pity for such a man to have to sit to a class of affected geese like us as a model?  I declare it makes me sick.  And we shall keep him a week, and pay him six or seven dollars for the use of his grand old head, and then what will he do?  The last time he was regularly employed was when Mr. Mace was working at his Damascus Massacre.  Then he wanted so many Arab sheiks and Christian elders that he kept old Mr. Lindau steadily employed for six months.  Now he has to pick up odd jobs where he can.”

“I suppose he has his pension,” said Mrs. Leighton.

“No; one of the girls”—­that was the way Alma always described her fellow-students—­“says he has no pension.  He didn’t apply for it for a long time, and then there was a hitch about it, and it was somethinged—­vetoed, I believe she said.”

“Who vetoed it?” asked Mrs. Leighton, with some curiosity about the process, which she held in reserve.

“I don’t know-whoever vetoes things.  I wonder what Mr. Wetmore does think of us—­his class.  We must seem perfectly crazy.  There isn’t one of us really knows what she’s doing it for, or what she expects to happen when she’s done it.  I suppose every one thinks she has genius.  I know the Nebraska widow does, for she says that unless you have genius it isn’t the least use.  Everybody’s puzzled to know what she does with her baby when she’s at work—­whether she gives it soothing syrup.  I wonder how Mr. Wetmore can keep from laughing in our faces.  I know he does behind our backs.”

Mrs. Leighton’s mind wandered back to another point.  “Then if he says Mr. Beaton can’t paint, I presume he doesn’t respect him very much.”

“Oh, he never said he couldn’t paint.  But I know he thinks so.  He says he’s an excellent critic.”

“Alma,” her mother said, with the effect of breaking off, “what do you suppose is the reason he hasn’t been near us?”

“Why, I don’t know, mamma, except that it would have been natural for another person to come, and he’s an artist at least, artist enough for that.”

“That doesn’t account for it altogether.  He was very nice at St. Barnaby, and seemed so interested in you—­your work.”

“Plenty of people were nice at St. Barnaby.  That rich Mrs. Horn couldn’t contain her joy when she heard we were coming to New York, but she hasn’t poured in upon us a great deal since we got here.”