Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

for Arthur, poor boy; he had longed to see the picture. However afterwards, he declared he enjoyed it. “My Man Godfrey” was just as delightful as it was several years ago.At ten o’clock, our doorbell rang, and a man introduced himself as Mr. Jewett, a musician whose hobby was painting. I invited him in, rather reluctantly, and it turned out he had a companion along, a Mrs. Allen.I wish that I had a workable formula, for getting rid of such people (as these turned out to be). With neatness and dispatch. Perhaps, however, I would miss an interesting experience (albeit even tho an unpleasant one.) Mrs. Allen was so like a woman in a painting by Reggie Marsh that she startled me. The painting is the one done at Atlantic City — a negro pushing with great effort a wheeled contrivance, in which is sitting a bloated plutocrat, jaded of eye and sagging in his seat, and his mistress, an exaggerated blonde sitting aloof and slightly contemptuous of her companion.What Mrs. Allen’s relation to Mr. Jewett was, it would perhaps not be fair to hazard; but no matter what he said, she would turn to us with a bright artificial smile, as tho to say “Isnt [sic] he brilliant? Wasn’t he clever? Isn’t he incredible?” And she had plenty of opportunity, for he talked incessantly, and all about himself.