"I am a painter," I replied, "A painter-painter... dissimilar, of course, from, say, a painter who paints walls, fences, or buildings perhaps." I held my brush hand aloft and made as if I were outlining a portrait.
"Surely this not a fulltime occupation?" Inquired she, "A painter? This is not to speak ill of your apparent talents; rather, how does one sustain his or herself, a family aside, purely upon a painter's wages?"
"A fulltime painter, yes. Portraits to be precise. Nevertheless, I will confess there does exist a degree of uneasiness from time to time," I admitted, sensing her uncertainly, "... principally upon the ill-fated hours of minimal commissions."
"By your 'uneasiness' I must presuppose that you desire a profession or life of greater fiscal reward?" She asked. She dropped her head to one side with her eyes squinted toward me.
"Everything that I need to sustain myself I am able to gather by means of both the rather paltry revenues I generate as well as the limitless bounties offered from the soil, from experience-turned-knowledge-turned-wisdom, and from the assurance of imminent love."
"'Love'? And what does a man with whom possesses such a throng of 'limitless bounties' require from simple love?"
"Love is the anchor to which all living organisms cling to - meager painters included - in an effort to keep from drifting into certain despondency and bleakness. Love, too, is limitless; yet, love is often ensnared on some shoulder along the meandering pathways of existence. Still, I am unyielding in my traversing of such paths in hopes that a Countess should rest upon one such shoulder in expectancy.
"Even Countess, amid all her material wealth, is apt to throw chests of gold into the sea at the promises of a painted portrait by her suitor.
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