The back of the man was turned to Marcus Wilkeson, and he was
making rapid dabs on the canvas with a long brush, frequently dipping
into one of a series of pails or pans which stood on the floor by his
side. He was smoking and humming the operatic air at the same time; and
he pulled his great slouched hat farther over his eyes, as a signal for
impertinent curiosity to keep its distance.
Wesley Tiffles whispered something about the eccentricities of genius,
and then said:
"Mr. Patching. Allow me. Mr. Wilkeson. A capitalist, who thinks of
taking a small interest in the panorama. Confidential, of course."
The artist turned round during these remarks, and presented the original
of a portrait which Marcus remembered to have seen--dressing gown, hat,
and all--in a small print-shop window in the Sixth Avenue. Touching the
face he might have had doubt, but there was no mistaking the pattern of
the dressing gown and the amazing hat. He also had a faint recollection
of the thin face, the Vandyke beard, and the long, tangled hair at Mrs.
Slapman's, on New Year's, but was not positive as to their identity.
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