“Do you know about pictures?” asked Madge with eager interest.
“Not much. I’ve heard more or less art-jargon in my day; that’s all.”
Madge looked at him suspiciously.
“I am sure you will agree with me that I don’t know much,” he continued, “when I tell you that I prefer your pen-and-ink work to the miniature. ‘The Consequences of Crime’ is full of humour; and I have been given to understand that you can’t produce an effect without skill,—what you would probably dignify with the name of technique. The second small boy on the right is not at all bad.”
“You do know about art!” cried Madge. “I rather think you must be an artist.”
Mr. Spriggs did not exactly change countenance; he only looked as if he were either trying to smile or trying not to. Madge wished she could make out just what were the lines and shadows in his face that produced this singular expression.
“Have you never thought of doing anything for the papers?” he asked. 119
“Thought of it! I’ve spent four dollars and sixty-one cents in postage within the last ten months, and he always comes back to the ark!”
“‘He’? Comes back where?”
“To the ark. I call the package ‘Noah’s Dove’ because it never finds a place to roost.”