The Argosy — page 371: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

350 PAUL SMITH, A.R.A. in sheg morning sun was streaming into a large wainscoted room, filling it with beauty, shining through the small panes of three tall narrow windows, severely draped in Syrian muslin curtains. Outside, the Thames flowed on, past the old Chelsea wooden bridge, spanning it, in a glory of dazzling, sparkling light. ‘The furniture in the room had an old-world look. But that comfort was not sacrificed to appearance was shown in the somewhat unwieldy Indian-cane lounging chairs and a couch, made beautiful by a gold embroidered cashmere shawlcoveringit. Persian rugs and soft and glossy furs gave tone and colour to the plain golden-coloured panels of the room. At the further end a fine piece of old tapestry, partly drawn aside, screened off a smaller room, lighted by a window of olive-green glass, showing a narrow door in the wainscot, leading, it might be, to a deep cupboard, or a passage communicating with the corridor. Yellow daffodils, in quaint Japanese bronze pots, delicious bits of blue and white, vividly coloured fans, dashed here and there in bright flashes, amid the various objects of art, were hardly needed to show that it was an artist’s home. The studio was further embellished by the occupants, two young men. One, the owner, was smoking while his facile pencil rapidly sketched on a small wooden block, listening the while to his com- panion’s talk. For Paul Smith, although ambitious of better things, was industrious and could ill afford to waste time. Pending the arrival of the expected model for his important picture on the easel, he was finishing one of the numerous orders for a popular magazine. The tall Chippendale timepiece struck ten as he impatiently exclaimed: ‘‘Isabel’s late this morning. Strange! As a rule she is the most dependable of women.” ‘‘ Are women ever to be depended upon ?” his friend, the Honour- able Hugo Somerville, asked, gazing absently at the picture on the easel. ‘She is. Glad you seem to like my picture. Do you care to see the lines it illustrates?” And the artist handed an open book over to Somerville ; who, having been attaché at St. Petersburg and other foreign Courts, was sufficiently well up to understand the verses written in old French ; he read aloud: ‘* A vostre maitresse envoys Ce qu'elle mande ; mais pour moy, Gaarde le parfum de la rose, Y en mon cuer le tiens enclose.” CORNICLOOKS (E©) im