Memling in Paris

Memling in Paris

By Rupert Hughes
Author of “The Angel on the Front Cloud,” “The After-Hour,” Etc.

When it comes to art, commend us to Dirk Memling. If he paints a picture it is a real painting, not a daub. His heart is in it; his soul. This is the story of how, during his stay in the beautiful city on the Seine, he painted, alas, too well

IF I’d ’a’ been slammed ashore on Robinson Caruso’s island all by me lonesome, I couldn’t feel lonesomer than what I feel lonesome now.” Nellie Gaskell was mumbling to herself for company. Crowds surrounded her, but she knew nobody. She faced the city of Cherbourg, and was afraid of it. She looked back over her left shoulder, and saw the huge steamer Mutterland that had brought her across the sea, already dwindling off toward its German port, after exuding its Paris-bound passengers on board a tender.
Nellie sat on somebody’s else trunk, and kicked her heels against somebody’s else initials. And then a porter came up and pulled the trunk out from under her. She had to stand up, and her shoes were too tight. She had saved them to wear down the gangplank, because he was to have met her, and a gangplank is a good place to show off shoes. Item,

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