But who on earth would have suspected it?
Billy King, whom she had known all her life, as poor as a church mouse, and the kind of painter whose work will never 'take' if he lives to be a thousand! His portraits may be good art--I don't pretend to know anything about that--but I do know pictures of pretty women when I see them, and his women are frights, every last one of them.

If you're thin, he paints your skeleton, and if you're fat, he makes you as square as a house, and, thin or fat, he always gives you a blue and yellow complexion.

He wouldn't even make Patty white, though I implored him to do it--and he made her look exactly ten years older than her age." "I've never seen any portraits of living people--only of ancestors," said Gabriella, "and I am so much interested." "Well, you mustn't judge them by Billy's, my dear, even if he did get all those prizes in Paris.

But I always said the French were queer, and if they hadn't been, they would never have raved so over the things Billy painted.

Now, Augustus Featherfield's are really charming.