“They will have to be cleaned, for one thing.”
“And how do you propose cleaning them?” he demanded.
“I have always regarded coal oil and turpentine as quite satisfactory,” she retorted, plainly resenting his tone.
“Then if your canvases are of any value you’ve been using something which will very quickly take the value out of them. You’d kill their color in no time. We wash a picture with cheesecloth in warm water and soap, the same as you’d wash fine lace; and a part of the trick is to dry it quickly to keep it from warping. Then dissolve mastic tears in turpentine and put it on with a camel’s hair brush, if you have to.”
It was plain that she was as averse to criticism as she was unaccustomed to it.
“In that case perhaps the cleaning can be dispensed with,” she replied with dignity.
“Then I suppose I can see ’em at once,” he suggested. But her embarrassment returned to her.
“They will have to be arranged,” she said with a solemnity which in some way went lame.
“How many canvases are there?” he asked.
“Between twenty and thirty,” was the hesitating reply.