"Yes, I shall, Groove; at least I hope so, but it must be a long time
first."

"I never knew a painter who could talk and paint both," explained Mr.
Groove.

"Very well," said Gatty. "Then I'll say but one word more, and it is
this. The artifice of painting is old enough to die; it is time the art
was born. Whenever it does come into the world, you will see no more dead
corpses of trees, grass and water, robbed of their life, the sunlight,
and flung upon canvas in a studio, by the light of a cigar, and a
lie--and--"

"How much do you expect for your picture?" interrupted Jones.

"What has that to do with it? With these little swords" (waving his
brush), "we'll fight for nature-light, truth light, and sunlight against
a world in arms--no, worse, in swaddling clothes."

"With these little swerrds," replied poor old Groove, "we shall cut our
own throats if we go against people's prejudices."

The young artist laughed the old daubster a merry defiance, and then
separated from the party, for his lodgings were down the street.

He had not left them long, before a most musical voice was heard, crying:

"A caallerr owoo!"