“_Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labour-house vast Of being, it practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm!_” Simeon Erard tiptoed deftly across the room, tugging at his thin, sandy heard. Fumbling among the curtains which draped one corner of the best light, he pulled the cord, after carefully eyeing his visitors to see that all were placed properly. The light silk folds fell apart, revealing a small canvas,--a cool deep slit of grey water let into a marble floor, which was cut in two by the languorous reach of a woman’s back done in hard green. The large masses of auburn hair of the bent head floated on the creamy slab. The artist coughed.…
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