“Don’t be spiteful, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth, with a smile. “Shall we come and see the picture?”
Jack and Gipsy were left to the last as they came up towards the house, and she made a little mischievous gesture of measuring herself against him.
“Yes, I think it’s true!”
“Well,” said Jack gruffly, though his eyes sparkled, “I shall leave off growing some time, I suppose. I say, are you going to dine at my aunt’s to-morrow?”
“Yes,” said Gipsy. “Lady Cheriton has been here, and she brought your sister. How handsome she is; but she was so silent. I was afraid of her. I wonder if she liked me,” said Gipsy, blushing in her turn.
“Shy with Nettie?” exclaimed Jack. “You might as well be shy of a wild cat. She doesn’t like any one much but Bob and her pets.”
“All, young ladies grow as well as young gentlemen,” said Gipsy. “Next year—”
“Yes; next year—” said Jack; but Gipsy opened the studio door, and ended the conversation.
Mr Stanforth’s studio was arranged with a view more to the painting of pictures than to the display of curtains, carpets, and china; but it was still a pretty and pleasant place, with a few rare works of art by other hands than those of its owner. There were few finished pictures of Mr Stanforth’s there then; but one large canvas on which he was working, and, besides various portraits in different stages, the drawing of Mr Lester, which Jack had not hitherto seen. Mr Stanforth brought it forward, and asked him to make any comment that occurred to him. It was a fine drawing of a fine face, and brought out forcibly the union of size and strength with beauty which none of the sons fully equalled, though there might be more to interest in all their faces. For, after all, the little imperfections of expression, that which was wanting as well as that which was present in the coming out and going in, the pleasures, the duties, and the failures, the changes of mood and temper, the smiles and the frowns of daily life, had made the individual man, and could not be shown in a likeness so taken. It was a picture that would satisfy them better as the years went by. Indeed Alvar thought it perfect, and Jack could hardly say that he saw anything wanting; but Cherry, after many praises and some hesitation, had said, “Yes, it is very like, but it is as if one saw him from a distance. Perhaps that is best.”
After this picture had been put away, Jack began to look round and to relieve the impression made on him by a little artistic conversation, evidently carefully studied from the latest Oxford authorities. He looked at the pictures on the wall, found fault so correctly with what would have naturally been pleasing to him, and admired so much what a few months before he would have thought hideous, that Cheriton’s eyes sparkled with fun, and Alvar, for once appreciating the humour of the situation, said,—