Old

Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past

sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a

satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years

he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his

Mistress's robe.

He

had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For

several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of

commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those

young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He

drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest

he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one,

and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two

young artists in the studio above.

Sue

found Behrman smelling strongly o...