. Our Philadelphia. rmed by a notice, written on paperand pinned on the tight-locked door, that J. was out andwould be back in half an hour. My Uncle and I wereinclined to interpret this literally, once or twice waitingtrustingly on the dark landing some little while beyond theappointed time. On one occasion I believe the door wasopened, when we knocked, by Mr. Poore who was not sureof the length of a half hour as J. reckoned it, but had anidea it might vary according to circumstances, especiallynow that J. was out of town. I went away not annoyed asI should be to-day, but more stirred than ev
. Our Philadelphia. rmed by a notice, written on paperand pinned on the tight-locked door, that J. was out andwould be back in half an hour. My Uncle and I wereinclined to interpret this literally, once or twice waitingtrustingly on the dark landing some little while beyond theappointed time. On one occasion I believe the door wasopened, when we knocked, by Mr. Poore who was not sureof the length of a half hour as J. reckoned it, but had anidea it might vary according to circumstances, especiallynow that J. was out of town. I went away not annoyed asI should be to-day, but more stirred than ever by thenovelty of the adventure. At last I tied J. down by an appointment, as I shouldhave done at the start, and he, having returned to town,kept it to the minute. I think from first to last of thisastonishing business I had no greater shock of astonish-ment than when I followed him into his studio. We werein the Eighteen-Eighties then, when American magazinesand newspapers were making sensational copy out of the. THE MORRIS HOUSE ON EIGHTH STREET THE ROMANCE OF WORK 275 princely splendour of the London studios, above all ofTademas, Leightons, Millais: palatial interiors, hungwith priceless tapestries, carpeted with rare Oriental rugs,shining with old brass and pottery and armour, openingupon Moorish courts, reached by golden stairs, fragrantwith flowers, filled with soft couches and luxuriouscushions—^flamboyant, exotic interiors that would not havedisgraced Ouidas godlike young Guardsmen but thatscarcely seemed to belong to men who made their livingby the work of their hands. Indeed, it was their splendourthat misled so many incompetent young men and womenof the later Victorian age into the belief that art was theeasiest and most luxurious short cut to wealth. But therewas nothing splendid or princely about studio. Itwas frankly a workshop, big and empty, a few unframeddrawings and life studies stuck up on the bare walls, thefloors carpetless, for furniture an easel
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