The Artist of the Beautiful

           Anelderlyman,withhisprettydaughteronhisarm,waspassingalongthestreet,andemergedfromthegloomofthecloudyeveningintothelightthatfellacrossthepavementfromthewindowofasmallshop.Itwasaprojectingwindow;andontheinsideweresuspendedavarietyofwatches,pinchbeck,silver,andoneortwoofgold,allwiththeirfacesturnedfromthestreets,asifchurlishlydisinclinedtoinformthewayfarerswhato’clockitwas.Seatedwithintheshop,sidelongtothewindowwithhispalefacebentearnestlyoversomedelicatepieceofmechanismonwhichwasthrowntheconcentratedlustreofashadelamp,appearedayoungman.

           "WhatcanOwenWarlandbeabout?"mutteredoldPeterHovenden,himselfaretiredwatchmaker,andtheformermasterofthissameyoungmanwhoseoccupationhewasnowwonderingat."Whatcanthefellowbeabout?ThesesixmonthspastIhavenevercomebyhisshopwithoutseeinghimjustassteadilyatworkasnow.Itwouldbeaflightbeyondhisusualfoolerytoseekfortheperpetualmotion;andyetIknowenoughofmyoldbusinesstobecertainthatwhatheisnowsobusywithisnopartofthemachineryofawatch."

           "Perhaps,father,"saidAnnie,withoutshowingmuchinterestinthequestion,"Owenisinventinganewkindoftimekeeper.Iamsurehehasingenuityenough."

           "Poh,child!HehasnotthesortofingenuitytoinventanythingbetterthanaDutchtoy,"answeredherfather,whohadformerlybeenputtomuchvexationbyOwenWarland’sirregulargenius.