MEN I HAVE PAINTED
one until the whole attitude and expression begin to appeal to me as something to paint, and to paint at once. But will he hold the book in that queer way long enough? Over against the wall on the other side of the room is a canvas, but larger than I need. In an instant it is on the easel and I have measured by the eye the spot on which to place the head. With the greatest rapidity of which I am capable I brushed in the colour, the thin gray hair, the shadowed but luminous face, the eye-sockets, and a few lines for the pursed lips. Every nerve was awake and strained to speed on the eye and hand before the book was dropped, never to be taken up again in the same way. It seemed a miracle that it was held so long—how long I have never been able to tell, but, judging by the work done, full twenty minutes must have slipped slowly away before the hand began to droop and the blue volume fell upon the table—and my heart fell with it. There was a daub of colour on the canvas and nothing more. Sad and disappointed, I carried it back to its place against the wall, muttering, "Another good canvas spoiled," and resumed the portrait writing. This I finished. (Lord Armitstead saw it at Agnew's some time afterwards, and gave it to Lord Gladstone. The profile remains in the corner.) As I was about to start work I noticed that Mr. Gladstone commenced to nod the head a little, and was inclined to sleep. Rising suddenly, he left the desk and passed across the room to the other window, sat down comfortably in an easy chair and went to sleep. "This is the end of work to-day," I thought, so I began to pack up my things. To do so I had to cross the floor in front of the sleeper, when, to my astonishment and delight, I found Mr. Gladstone's head was in the same position in relation to the
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