Poor Jack Gisburn! The women had made
him--it was fitting that they should mourn him. Among his own sex
fewer regrets were heard, and in his own trade hardly a murmur.
Professional jealousy? Perhaps. If it were, the honour of the craft
was vindicated by little Claude Nutley, who, in all good faith,
brought out in the Burlington a very handsome "obituary" on
Jack--one of those showy articles stocked with random technicalities
that I have heard (I won't say by whom) compared to Gisburn's
painting. And so--his resolve being apparently irrevocable--the
discussion gradually died out, and, as Mrs. Thwing had predicted,
the price of "Gisburns" went up.
It was not till three years later that, in the course of a few
weeks' idling on the Riviera, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder
why Gisburn had given up his painting. On reflection, it really was
a tempting problem. To accuse his wife would have been too easy--his
fair sitters had been denied the solace of saying that Mrs. Gisburn
had "dragged him down.
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