CHAPTER X.
Mr.Morewood is Moved to Indignation.
When Morewood was at work he painted portraits, and painted them uncommonly well.

Of course he made his moan at being compelled to spend all his time on this work.

He was not, equally of course, in any way compelled, except in the sense that if you want to make a large income you must earn it.

This is the sense in which many people are compelled to do work, which they give you to understand is not the most suited to their genius, and it must be admitted that, although their words are foolish, not to say insincere, yet their deeds are sensible.

There can be no mistake about the income, and there often is about the genius.
Morewood, whose eccentricity stopped short of his banking account, painted his portraits like other people, and only deviated into landscape for a month in the summer, with the unfailing result of furnishing a crop of Morewoodesque parodies on Mother Nature that conclusively proved the fates were wiser than the painter.
This year it so chanced that he chose the wilds of Exmoor for the scene of his outrages.