"No, not at present. Not at all, permanently, I hope. Why should I? There is nothing to take me away. Dutton Park is my home for life, and they say the place looks neglected. I think—" in a hushed voice—"he would not like that. I must do what he would wish. It has come over me lately. O no, I shall settle down at home, and look after things. I have found a friend to be my companion—so far as anybody can be—" in the old weary tone. "And you will be near too! You—" with an affectionate glance—"and your good father. I wish I could have seen Madame Collier again."
"Aunt Marie wished it too. She left a message."
"Ah, she was always charming—so delightfully unconventional . . . How soon am I coming? I don't know. There is nothing to hinder or hasten my movements. I wish there were!—" dropping her voice anew. "I am only too free—no ties or burdens, except the one burden of myself."
Then a faint smile: "You see I am the same Evelyn as of old, never content with what I have. If the ties existed, I should want to be rid of them. But you shall do me good, dear . . . What nice news this is about your cousin, Mr. James Trevelyan, and the Dutton living! I remember him, years ago, as very pleasant. And he has been in the East-End all this time!"
Then the pictures claimed renewed attention, under Oswald's patronage. He attached himself resolutely to Evelyn; and Jean fell behind with Cyril. Any other arrangement was hardly possible, since people cannot march, four abreast, through Academy crowds near the end of July: but to Jean it was a spoilt afternoon. She could see Oswald talking continuously to Evelyn; or, Evelyn listening with a courteous air; but she could not hear what was said. Cyril claimed continuous attention: and despite all Jean's efforts, he and she were left in the rear.
"Jean, I really wouldn't go in for all that—about painting," he remarked presently, hesitating for a word and leaving it to the imagination. "I wouldn't really. You know what I mean. Oswald's a capital fellow, of course; but everybody can't be artistic, and if it isn't in him, he's not to be blamed. Black spots on a lady's veil are all very well in a dressmaker's fashion-book, but that is not high art. And if an artist can't do more than make a coloured photo of grass and trees and human beings—Well, I admit that lots don't do more; but then they are not artists. They are only painters! They might just as well take to photography, and not bother their brains with an easel."
Jean was amazed. That Cyril should venture openly to attack Oswald's views to her was something unprecedented. She listened in bewildered silence.
"Don't you see, Jean? You understand."
"What more do you expect?" asked a constrained voice.
"As if you don't know! A great deal more. An artist has to get at the inner soul of things—the hidden meaning. Not merely to copy colours and shapes. A photo gives one single glimpse of a face—the impression of a moment—a grin, or a frown, or a simper, as the case may be. It can't do more. But an artist, painting that same face, ought to give you the man himself—the man as a whole. Not just one glimpse of a passing mood, but the essence of the character—a sort of resume of body and mind. Don't you see? An artist ought to be like a poet, able to dive deeper and rise higher than common men. You wouldn't think much of a poet who is always telling you that grass is green and the sky blue. Anybody can do as much, without poetic power. But half the modern painters don't tell us more, don't go deeper than the outside . . . I'm afraid Oswald would call all this 'bosh;' but, you know, you can't be in leading-strings to Oswald all your life. Oswald doesn't know everything; and you have brains enough to think for yourself."