The sight didn't make him any happier. "Art patron!" he said with a wealth of expression in his voice.
In a moment there was a knock on the door, and Michael opened it to admit Jeremiah Van Orton.
"You are Michael Bonze?" he asked.
Bonze admitted his identity, although, just then, he was not particularly proud of it. The caller presented his card with the question, "You have heard of me?"
"Yes." said Bonze; "I've heard you have quite a large collection of Flemish paintings. Will you take a chair?"
Van Orton launched into his business at once. "I have come to see you," he said, "because I want a special kind of painting which you do better than anyone I know."
"Thank you!" Michael murmured and crossed his fingers behind him.
"Not that I like the sort of painting you do," the old man continued, "on the contrary, I dislike it intensely. It is dull, spiritless—I might say, insipid."
"Oh, do say 'insipid'!" said Michael. "Also say 'goodbye,' sir, at once!'
"Come, come!" said Van Orton. calmly. "This is no time for compliments. I am not here to discuss art but to make you a proposition which you will find highly beneficial, financially."
Bonze had a sudden vision of rows of canned baked beans, and he held his tongue.
"For a particular reason, which is none of your affair, I wish you to paint a life-size nude of a model I have selected. The pose makes very little difference, but I suggest that you have her reclining on a chaise-longue. For background you may use drapery or anything you please—it is of no importance."
Bonze asked, "Would you mind telling me why I should have been chosen for this work?"
"Because your painting is so realistically accurate that not even a colored photograph can compare with it. I don't consider it art, but it will serve my purpose."
After all, a man had to have some pride. "I'm not interested," said Bonze.
No shade of disappointment crossed the old man's face. "No, no," he agreed, "of course not. But you would, perhaps, be interested in fifteen thousand dollars, a third payable now?"
Michael resisted an impulse to jump up and kiss the beneficent bald head. "Write the check and send me the model," he said. "I'll start today."
"Good!" said Van Orton. "But now I must lay down two important conditions. First, I will give you a number of photographs of a young woman who bears some resemblance to the model you will use. I want you to study the pictures very closely, because your painting must look more like them than like the model."
"But why," Michael protested, "why can't I simply paint a portrait of the subject of the photographs? It would be a lot more satisfactory and easier."
"If the job were as easy as that, I wouldn't be paying you fifteen thousand dollars." Van Orton reached in the pocket of his coat and withdrew ten or twelve little envelopes. "The second request that I must make is this," he continued. "Each of these packets contains a pinch of powder. They are plainly marked, 'hair, nails, skin, lips,' and so on. Now, when you mix your paints for these various details, you must add these powders as indicated. You are a man of honor?"
"Certainly!" said the very mystified painter.
"You will give me your word that this will be done according to my instructions?"
Michael nodded.
W.T.—4
