Chapter III

The aged artist sat in his luxurious studio surrounded by his masterpieces--that is, by the pictures he had never been able to sell.

The gem of the collection stood on an easel in the middle of the room; while a connoisseur, hat in hand, inspected it closely, enthusiastically, breathlessly. Then, coming over to where the artist was resting, he sat down opposite to him and in a voice trembling with emotion asked, "Tell me, how _do_ you mix your colours?"

There was a deep silence, almost painful in its intensity. A drawing-pin fell with a deafening crash.

The venerable painter stood up with a calm and leonine expression. "I use an ivory palette knife," he said.