“Nor I to see you,” she broke in. “What has a train dispatcher to do with picture galleries?”
“Mighty little, I’m sorry to say. I didn’t know you were an artist!”
“I’m not,” she said, laughing merrily. “I’m only a copyist. What do you think of it?” she added, with a gesture toward the picture on the easel.
Allan gazed at it with unfeigned admiration, though to a more critical eye, its shortcomings would have been evident enough.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s splendid! Where did you learn how?”
Again she laughed, though her cheeks flushed a little at his praise.
“I’ve been working at it for a long time,” she said. “But don’t deceive yourself—it isn’t a work of art—it’s merely a pot-boiler.”
“A what?”
“A pot-boiler—designed, in other words, not for fame, but to furnish food and raiment. But, come,” she added, “I’ve worked enough for one day and I need some fresh air. Will you come along?”
“I certainly will!” he said, his face lighting, and he watched her while she stowed her paints away in a box, giving them, together with the easel and the unfinished painting, into the care of one of the attendants.