2832. But the problem is, how on earth will I make any money; how can I pay my bills. In the past I could always set aside a few weeks for my important paintings of ancient Roman history that I have been wanting to do, but only because of the portraits I do that pay all the bills and allow me to have a house keeper and a gardener.
In the future, with no portraits to do I am going to have to clean the
house myself. I am going to have to cook my own meals. Not only that,
with no one to send to the store I will have to even do my own grocery
shopping, I wonder what that will be like.
Having said all of that to nobody, standing there on the street corner,
Mr. Hunt fell to thinking and the direction of his thoughts was not a
good one. It was a combination of despair mixed with envy. Despair about
his plight, and envy of all those artists who never had to do portraits
of dogs and cats and their wealthy aristocratic owners with their
2835. But the biggest problem for Mr. Hunt, and something he was very loth to mention, even to himself, was that he did not believe a word of what he was saying out-loud to himself. He knew, since he was an artist, that the amount of time spent on a work of art has no relationship at all to either its value or it quality. He knew this and he had always known it.