H. G., in presence of the ladies, lost something of his original flavor, and rose into studied elegance, greatly to the comfort of Sarah, whose glow of pride as his talk ran on came without show of restraint.
The supper was delicious.
But Sarah was quiet, quiet to H. G. and to me, until after tea, when the old lady said, “You young folks will have to excuse me this evening,” and withdrew to her chamber.
More logs were then piled on the sitting-room hearth, and we three gathered in a semi-circle.
Presently H. G. took the poker and twisted it about among coals and ashes, prying up the oak sticks, as he announced, in a measured, studied way, “An artist’s wife, that is,” he explained, “an Academician’s wife orter, well she’d orter sabe the beautiful, and take her regular æsthetics; and then again,” he continued in explanatory tone, “she’d orter to know how to keep a hotel, derned if she hadn’t, for it’s rough like furst off, ’fore a feller gets his name up. But then when he does, tho’, she’s got a salubrious old time of it. It’s touch a little bell” (he pressed the andiron-top to show us how the thing was done), “and ‘Brooks, the morning paper!’ Open your regular Herald:
“‘Art Notes.—Another of H. G. Smith’s tender works, entitled, “Off the Grade,” so full of out-of-doors and subtle feeling of nature, is now on exhibition at Goupil’s.’
“Look down a little further:
“‘Italian Opera.—Between the acts all eyes turned to the distingué Mrs. H. G. Smith, who looked,’”—then turning to me, and waving his hand at Sarah Jane, “I leave it to you if she don’t.”
Sarah Jane assumed the pleasing color of the sugar-beet, without seeming inwardly unhappy.
“It’s only a question of time with H. G.,” continued my friend. “Art is long, you know—derned long—and it may be a year before I paint my great picture, but after that Smith works in lead harness.”