“Fine idea,” said David. “I’ve been more or less neglecting Ralph. It’s time I was seeing what the kid is up to.”
One of the things that Ralph was most astonishingly “up to” was art. With embarrassment and blushes he brought out a large portfolio filled with drawings, which he exhibited to his brother. David examined them with increasing respect. He knew just enough about the fine arts to know that for a schoolboy the sketches were extremely good. There were pictures of school scenes, of the pond with the crews on it, and of various masters; there was a sketch of Ruth Davenport, at which David looked with special interest.
“That’s a mighty good likeness,” he said. “You’ve improved a lot over the little kid sketches you used to make. Has anybody been teaching you?”
“No.” Ralph looked at his brother hopefully, shyly; and then said, “I want to be an artist, Dave.”
“When did that idea come over you?”
“I don’t know exactly. This year. I know that it’s the one thing I want to do.”
“You’ll have to talk it over with Mr. Dean. Pity he can’t see your work and judge for himself.”
“Yes. But if I were to take lessons this summer, and the teacher thought it worth while for me to go on—”
“You wouldn’t want to give up going to Harvard, would you, in order to start right in and study art?”