III.

Mildred did not see Alfred again. In the pauses of her painting she

wondered if he thought of her, if he missed her. Something had gone

out of her life, but a great deal more had come into it.

Mr. Hoskin, a young painter, whose pictures were sometimes rejected in

the Academy, but who was a little lion in the minor exhibitions, came

once a week to give her lessons, and when she went to town she called

at his studio with her sketches. Mr. Hoskin's studio was near the

King's Road, the last of a row of red houses, with gables, cross-

beams, and palings. He was a good-looking, blond man, somewhat

inclined to the poetical and melancholy type; his hair bristled, and

he wore a close-cut red beard; the moustache was long and silky; there

was a gentle, pathetic look in his pale blue eyes; and a slight

hesitation of speech, an inability to express himself in words,

created a passing impression of a rather foolish, tiresome person. But

beneath this exterior there lay a deep, true nature, which found

expression in twilit landscapes, the tenderness of cottage lights in

the gloaming, vague silhouettes, and vague skies and fields. Ralph

Hoskin was very poor: his pathetic pictures did not find many

purchasers, and he lived principally by teaching.

But he had not given Mildred her fourth lesson in landscape painting

when he received an advantageous offer to copy two pictures by Turner

in the National Gallery. Would it be convenient to her to take her

lesson on Friday instead of on Thursday? She listened to him, her eyes

wide open, and then in her little allusive way suggested that she

would like to copy something. She might as well take her lesson in the

National Gallery as in Sutton. Besides, he would be able to take her

round the gallery and explain the merits of the pictures.

She was anxious to get away from Sutton, and the prospect of long days

spent in London pleased her, and on the following Thursday Harold took

her up to London by the ten minutes past nine. For the first time she

found something romantic in that train. They drove from Victoria in a.

hansom. Mr. Hoskin was waiting for her on the steps of the National

Gallery.

'I'm so frightened,' she said; 'I'm afraid I don't paint well enough.'

'You'll get on all right. I'll see you through. This way. I've got

your easel, and your place is taken.'

They went up to the galleries.

'Oh, dear me, this seems rather alarming!' she exclaimed, stopping

before the crowd of easels, the paint-boxes, the palettes on the

thumbs, the sheaves of brushes, the maulsticks in the air. She glanced

at the work, seeking eagerly for copies, worse than any she was likely

to perpetrate. Mr. Hoskin assured her that there were many in the

gallery who could not do as well as she. And she experienced a little

thrill when he led her to the easel. A beautiful white canvas stood on

it ready for her to begin, and on a chair by the side of the easel was

her paint-box and brushes. He told her where she would find him, in

the Turner room, and that she must not hesitate to come and fetch him

whenever she was in difficulties.

'I should like you to see the drawing,' she said, 'before I begin to

paint.'

'I shall look to your drawing many times before I allow you to begin

painting. It will take you at least a couple of days to get it

right.... Don't be afraid,' he said, glancing round; 'lots of them

can't do as well as you. I shall be back about lunch time.'

The picture that Mildred had elected to copy was Reynolds's angel

heads. She looked at the brown gold of their hair, and wondered what

combination of umber and sienna would produce it. She studied the

delicate bloom of their cheeks, and wondered what mysterious

proportions of white, ochre, and carmine she would have to use to

obtain it. The bright blue and grey of the eyes frightened her. She

felt sure that such colour did not exist in the little tin tubes that

lay in rows in the black japanned box by her side. Already she

despaired. But before she began to paint she would have to draw those

heavenly faces in every feature. It was more difficult than sketching

from nature. She could not follow the drawing, it seemed to escape

her. It did not exist in lines which she could measure, which she

could follow. It seemed to have grown out of the canvas rather than to

have been placed there. The faces were leaned over--illusive

foreshortenings which she could not hope to catch. The girl in front

of her was making, it seemed to Mildred, a perfect copy. There seemed

to be no difference, or very little, between her work and Reynolds's.

Mildred felt that she could copy the copy easier than she could the

original.

But on the whole she got on better than she had expected, and it was

not till she came to the fifth head, that she found she had drawn them

all a little too large, and had not sufficient space left on her

canvas. This was a disappointment. There was nothing for it but to

dust out her drawing and begin it all again. She grew absorbed in her

work; she did not see the girl in front of her, nor the young man

copying opposite; she did not notice their visits to each other's

easels; she forgot everything in the passion of drawing. Time went by

without her perceiving it; she was startled by the sound of her

master's voice and looked in glad surprise.

'How are you getting on?' he said.

'Very badly. Can't you see?'

'No, not so badly. Will you let me sit down? Will you give me your

charcoal?'

'The first thing is to get the heads into their places on the canvas;

don't think of detail; but of two or three points, the crown of the

head, the point of the chin, the placing of the ear. If you get them

exactly right the rest will come easily. You see there was not much to

correct.' He worked on the drawing for some few minutes, and then

getting up he said, 'But you'll want some lunch; it is one o'clock.

There's a refreshment room downstairs. Let me introduce you to Miss

Laurence,' he said. The women bowed. 'You're doing an excellent copy,

Miss Laurence.'

'Praise from you is praise indeed.'

'I would give anything to paint like that,' said Mildred.

'You've only just begun painting,' said Miss Laurence.

'Only a few months,' said Mildred.

'Miss Lawson does some very pretty sketches from nature,' said Mr.

Hoskin; 'this is her first attempt at copying.'

'I shall never get those colours,' said Mildred. 'You must tell me

which you use.'

'Mr. Hoskin can tell you better than I. You can't have a better

master.'

'Do you copy much here?' asked Mildred.

'I paint portraits when I can get them to do; when I can't, I come

here and copy.... We're in the same boat,' she said, turning to Mr.

Hoskin. 'Mr. Hoskin paints beautiful landscapes as long as he can find

customers; when he can't, he undertakes to copy a Turner.'

Mildred noticed the expression that passed over her master's face. It

quickly disappeared, and he said, 'Will you take Miss Lawson to the

refreshment room, Miss Laurence? You're going there I suppose.'

'Yes, I'm going to the lunch-room, and shall be very glad to show Miss

Lawson the way.'

And, in company with quite a number of students, they walked through

the galleries. Mildred noticed that Miss Laurence's nose was hooked,

that her feet were small, and that she wore brown-leather shoes.

Suddenly Miss Laurence said 'This way,' and she went through a door

marked 'Students only.' Mr. Hoskin held the door open for her, they

went down some stone steps looking on a courtyard. Mr. Hoskin said, 'I

always think of Peter De Hooch when I go down these stairs. The

contrast between its twilight and the brightness of the courtyard is

quite in his manner.'

'And I always think how much I can afford to spend on my lunch,' said

Elsie laughing.

The men turned to the left top to go to their room, the women turned

to the right to go to theirs.

'This way,' said Miss Laurence, and she opened a glass door, and

Mildred found herself in what looked like an eating-house of the

poorer sort. There was a counter where tea and coffee and rolls and

butter were sold. Plates of beef and ham could be had there, too. The

students paid for their food at the counter, and carried it to the

tables.

'I can still afford a plate of beef,' said Miss Laurence, 'but I don't

know how long I shall be able to if things go on as they've been

going. But you don't know what it is to want money,' and in a rapid

glance Miss Laurence roughly calculated the price of Mildred's

clothes.

A tall, rather handsome girl, with dark coarse hair and a face lit up

by round grey eyes, entered.

'So you are here, Elsie,' and she stared at Mildred.

'Let me introduce you to Miss Lawson. Miss Lawson, Miss Cissy Clive.'

'I'm as hungry as a hawk,' Cissy said, and she selected the plate on

which there was most beef.

'I haven't seen you here before, Miss Lawson. Is this your first day?'

'Yes, this is my first day.'

They took their food to the nearest table and Elsie asked Cissy if she

had finished her copy of Etty's 'Bather.' Cissy told how the old

gentleman in charge of the gallery had read her a lecture on the

subject. He did not like to see such pictures copied, especially by

young women. Copies of such pictures attracted visitors. But Cissy had

insisted, and he had put her and the picture into a little room off

the main gallery, where she could pursue her nefarious work

unperceived.

The girls laughed heartily. Elsie asked for whom Cissy was making the

copy.

'For a friend of Freddy's--a very rich fellow. Herbert is going to get

him to give me a commission for a set of nude figures. Freddy has just

come back from Monte Carlo. He has lost all his money.... He says he's

"stony" and doesn't know how he'll pull through.'

'Was he here this morning?'

'He ran in for a moment to see me.... I'm dining with him to-night.'