‘Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that?’ cried Lucy.
‘Genre is his style,’ was the reply. ‘His mother was resolved he should be an amateur, and I give his master great credit.’
‘Especially for that not being a Madonna,’ said Albinia. ‘I congratulate you on his having so safe an amusement.’
‘Yes; it disposes of him and of the spare room. He cannot exist without an atelier.’
Just then the Vicar entered.
‘Ah! Algernon’s picture,’ began he, who had never been known to look at one, except the fat cattle in the Illustrated News. ‘What do you think of it? Has he not made a good hand of the pitcher?’
Albinia gratified him by owning that the pitcher was round; and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the ‘dear little spots’ in the rhododendron.
‘A poor way of spending a lad’s time,’ said the uncle; ‘but it is better than nothing; and I call the knife very good: I declare you might take it up,’ and he squeezed up his eyes to enhance the illusion.
A slow and wide opening of the door admitted the lofty presence of Algernon Cavendish Dusautoy, with another small picture in his hand. Becoming aware of the visitors, he saluted them with a dignified movement of his head, and erecting his chin, gazed at them over it.
‘So you have brought us another picture, Algernon,’ said his uncle. ‘Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring your red jar.’