“An artist,” thinks the girl. “Of course that’s what he is,” and on the strength of this inspiration she ploughs away nervously with her brush, though shyness as a rule is not one of those sins which can fairly be laid to Olive Ingelow’s charge.
“That won’t do,” presently remarks the stranger, who is leaning lazily against the rock watching her work. “Excuse me—but you must just round off this outline a little more—it is too hard and steely—so,” as acting obediently on his directions the drawing begins to assume life-like shape.
“I suppose you paint a great deal?” ventures Olive deferentially. Who knows what R.A. of renown may be criticising her crude attempts!
“No, I don’t.”
“But you used to,” she persists.
“Never wielded a brush in my life.”
“But you seem to know all about it. How in the world could you tell me to make those alterations if you can’t paint yourself?” she asks quickly, her incredulity giving way to a flash of not unnatural resentment.
“Pardon me. I didn’t say I couldn’t. What I said was that I never had.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No, because I could—if I tried.”