“I? I don’t think I’m fit to sit for my picture. We tried in London to get a photograph taken; but it made me look worse than I am, so we did not send it home.”
“You must let me try again. As an artist I may be forgiven for rejoicing in the chance of studying such a likeness beneath such a contrast as there is between you two. See, your faces are in the same mould; it is the colour, and still more the character, that differs.”
“I think that may be true of more than our faces,” said Cherry thoughtfully; “but I see what you mean, at least when I think of Jack, and we were alike when I was well. I will show you.”
Here Cheriton caught sight of the name on the first page of the book, “Raymond Stanforth,” looked at the drawings, and then at his new friend’s face with a rush of comprehension.
“How stupid I have been!” he exclaimed, colouring. “I beg your pardon. Of course I ought to have guessed who it was at once. Pray don’t think I am so ignorant as not to know your pictures. And I have been presuming to praise your sketches.”
Mr Stanforth laughed kindly.
“You must not leave off doing so now we have found each other out. Don’t imagine that appreciation is not always pleasant.”
“You have a great many admirers at Oxford,” said Cheriton, a little stiffly and shyly. “Some of the fellows prided themselves immensely on their appreciation of all sorts of modern art; but I’m afraid I don’t know very much about it.”
“You employed your time, your brother tells me, to better purpose?”
“I don’t know. I thought so then. And it seemed more worth while to get a ride or pull on the river. I don’t see what a fellow wants in his room but an armchair and a place for his books, and a good fire. One had better be out of doors when one isn’t working. I don’t care to have my rooms like a lady’s drawing-room. But of course,” he added apologetically, “I always like to go to the Academy and see the pictures.”