It was as if one had dropped a stage curtain upon the rattling, excited
scene without. Comfortable chairs were scattered about. Screens and
tall bric-a-brac cases of oriental workmanship divided spaces and
filled corners. A great square of sunshine fell from a sky-light, and
in one corner a Dutch clock slowly ticked. The color of the walls was
a dull brick red, and against them stood light brown shelves, holding
white and blue china vases, jugs and old plates. Sketches in ink, wash
and color were here and there on the wall, and in one place a large
canvas showing Market street, Philadelphia, near City Hall, on a rainy
day, gave a sombre yet rather pleasing touch.
Mrs. Stephens had returned to her easel, on which was a large sketch in
black and white, showing a young rake, with his body bent forward, his
elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands,—the picture
of despair. Some picture for a novel it was, the title of which might
easily have been “The Fool and His Money.”
“You won’t mind my working,” said Mrs. Stephens, and I hastened to
explain that I wouldn’t, and didn’t.
She put touches here and there on the picture, as we talked of women in
art, and the conversation did not seem to distract her attention from
the work in hand, which advanced rapidly.