Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 4.Who was Frank Swain? How did he get the job as a tutor?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 5.What was the difference between Ellsworth’s first drawing of the vase and the second drawing?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---wel l, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 　6.How often did Ellsworth want Swain to come?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 7.What happened when Ellsworth began to visit museums and galleries?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 8.What was“Trees Dressed in White”? How good was it?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 9.What was the Lathrop Gallery? Why did some people think the Lathrop committee was crazy?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 10.What was the final twist to the story?

The Luncheon I caught sight of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly. “Well ,it’s many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time o saw you? You asked me to luncheon . Did I remember ? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Laatin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mein and had written to me about it . I answered, thanking her, and presently I received form her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going here. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman.(Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman that they say. ) I had eight francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough. I answered that I would meet my friend –by correspondence –at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said. “Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously. “I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.” Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes ,a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had, I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked. “No,” she answered, “I never eat more than one thing. Unless you had a little caviare.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was mutton chop. “I think you are unwise to eat meat,” she siak. “I don; t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.” Then came the question of drink. “I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said. “Neither do I ,”I answered promptly. “Except white wine,” she proceeded as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion .” “What would you like ?”I asked ,hospitable still, but not exactly effusive. She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth. “My doctor won’t let me drink anything but champagne .” I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne. “What are you going to drink, the ?” “Water .” She ate the caviare and she ate salmon. She talked gaily of are and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task. “I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing?” I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.” “I am only going to eat one thing,” I said, as the waiter came again with the bill of fare. She waved him aside with an airy gesture. “No, no. I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.” My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them. “Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus .”I asked the waiter. I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel. “I’m not in the least hungry ,” my guest sighed, “but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus .” I ordered them. “Aren’t you going to have any?” “No ,I never eat asparagus.” “I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is ,you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.” We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had, and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later. The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls and my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last the finished. “Coffee ?”I said. “Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee ,”she answered. I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her. “You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in ,” she said ,as she ate the ice-cream. “One should always get up from a meal feeling one could cat a little more.” “Are you still hungry ?” is asked faintly. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you .” Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too –a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one . “You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat”—my one miserable little chop—“and you can’t eat any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I enjoy a peach .” The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she though me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket. “Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat more than one thing for luncheon .” “I’ll do better than that ,” I retorted. “I’ll eat nothing for dinner tonight .” “Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a humorist !” But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone. 1. The Luncheon describes the hilarious （令人发笑的） meeting of an impoverished writer and a friend with an appetite. Give a brief description of the embarrassing situation where this writer was involved. Did he ever take revenge on his woman friend? What led him to think that he had had his revenge at last?

The Luncheon I caught sight of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly. “Well ,it’s many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time o saw you? You asked me to luncheon . Did I remember ? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Laatin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mein and had written to me about it . I answered, thanking her, and presently I received form her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going here. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman.(Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman that they say. ) I had eight francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough. I answered that I would meet my friend –by correspondence –at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said. “Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously. “I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.” Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes ,a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had, I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked. “No,” she answered, “I never eat more than one thing. Unless you had a little caviare.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was mutton chop. “I think you are unwise to eat meat,” she siak. “I don; t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.” Then came the question of drink. “I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said. “Neither do I ,”I answered promptly. “Except white wine,” she proceeded as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion .” “What would you like ?”I asked ,hospitable still, but not exactly effusive. She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth. “My doctor won’t let me drink anything but champagne .” I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne. “What are you going to drink, the ?” “Water .” She ate the caviare and she ate salmon. She talked gaily of are and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task. “I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing?” I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.” “I am only going to eat one thing,” I said, as the waiter came again with the bill of fare. She waved him aside with an airy gesture. “No, no. I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.” My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them. “Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus .”I asked the waiter. I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel. “I’m not in the least hungry ,” my guest sighed, “but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus .” I ordered them. “Aren’t you going to have any?” “No ,I never eat asparagus.” “I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is ,you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.” We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had, and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later. The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls and my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last the finished. “Coffee ?”I said. “Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee ,”she answered. I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her. “You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in ,” she said ,as she ate the ice-cream. “One should always get up from a meal feeling one could cat a little more.” “Are you still hungry ?” is asked faintly. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you .” Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too –a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one . “You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat”—my one miserable little chop—“and you can’t eat any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I enjoy a peach .” The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she though me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket. “Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat more than one thing for luncheon .” “I’ll do better than that ,” I retorted. “I’ll eat nothing for dinner tonight .” “Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a humorist !” But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone. 2. Do you think the author portrays the woman sarcastically? How do you know? Give a few examples.

The Luncheon I caught sight of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly. “Well ,it’s many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time o saw you? You asked me to luncheon . Did I remember ? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Laatin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mein and had written to me about it . I answered, thanking her, and presently I received form her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going here. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman.(Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman that they say. ) I had eight francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough. I answered that I would meet my friend –by correspondence –at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said. “Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously. “I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.” Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes ,a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had, I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked. “No,” she answered, “I never eat more than one thing. Unless you had a little caviare.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was mutton chop. “I think you are unwise to eat meat,” she siak. “I don; t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.” Then came the question of drink. “I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said. “Neither do I ,”I answered promptly. “Except white wine,” she proceeded as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion .” “What would you like ?”I asked ,hospitable still, but not exactly effusive. She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth. “My doctor won’t let me drink anything but champagne .” I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne. “What are you going to drink, the ?” “Water .” She ate the caviare and she ate salmon. She talked gaily of are and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task. “I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing?” I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.” “I am only going to eat one thing,” I said, as the waiter came again with the bill of fare. She waved him aside with an airy gesture. “No, no. I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.” My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them. “Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus .”I asked the waiter. I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel. “I’m not in the least hungry ,” my guest sighed, “but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus .” I ordered them. “Aren’t you going to have any?” “No ,I never eat asparagus.” “I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is ,you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.” We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had, and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later. The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls and my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last the finished. “Coffee ?”I said. “Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee ,”she answered. I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her. “You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in ,” she said ,as she ate the ice-cream. “One should always get up from a meal feeling one could cat a little more.” “Are you still hungry ?” is asked faintly. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you .” Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too –a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one . “You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat”—my one miserable little chop—“and you can’t eat any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I enjoy a peach .” The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she though me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket. “Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat more than one thing for luncheon .” “I’ll do better than that ,” I retorted. “I’ll eat nothing for dinner tonight .” “Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a humorist !” But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone. 3. Maugham has an amazing skill for revealing, with a few touches, a situation and the essentials of a character. Examine the story closely and then give examples of how the skill is employed in the story.