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CHAPTER  X.

MR.   MOREWOOD  IS  MOVED  TO  INDIGNATION.

When Morewood was at work he painted
portraits, and painted them uncommonly well.
Of course he made his moan at being com¬
pelled to spend all his time on this work. He
was not, equally of course, in any way com¬
pelled,^ except in the sense that if you want to
make a large income you must earn it. This
is the sense in which many people are com¬
pelled to do work, which they give you to
understand is not the most suited to their
genius, and it must be admitted that, although
their words are foolish, not to say insincere,
yet their deeds are sensible. There can be no
mistake about the income, and there often is
about the genius. Morewood, whose eccentri¬
city stopped short of his banking account,
painted his portraits like other people, and
only deviated into landscape for a month in
the summer, with the unfailing result of
furnishing a crop of Morewoodesque parodies
on Mother Nature that conclusively proved
the fates were wiser than the painter.

This year it so chanced that he chose the