He just paints what's around him--and it's beautiful." "The smoke ?" "Wonderful! He sees the sky through it, somehow.

He does the ugly roofs of cheap houses through a haze of smoke, and he does smoky sunsets and smoky sunrises, and he has other things with the heavy, solid, slow columns of smoke going far out and growing more ethereal and mixing with the hazy light in the distance; and he has others with the broken sky-line of down-town, all misted with the smoke and puffs and jets of vapor that have colors like an orchard in mid-April.

I'm going to take you there some Sunday afternoon, Bibbs." "You're showing me the town," he said.

"I didn't know what was in it at all." "There are workers in beauty here," she told him, gently.

"There are other painters more prosperous than my friend.