From time to time Galatea stole a glance at the Artist’s face. It had the composure of a painter whose mind is concentrated on his subject and who feels that he is doing conscientious work. A look of more than admiration came into the girl’s eyes. They grew tender. The nutmeg-grater had dropped from her hand, and she was deaf to the wheedling grunts of Reginald. Presently she seemed troubled, as though dissatisfied with herself.
“Arthur,” she said gently, “I didn’t expect you to do more than make a rough sketch.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Galatea. This is a new and valuable experience to me. I’ve neglected animals. I couldn’t have a better chance than this. Would you mind asking Reginald to turn his face a trifle to the left? There—that’s splendid.”
The girl bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor. She even gave Reginald an impatient glance.
“I never realized until now,” said the Artist, as he took a steady look at Reginald’s profile, “how much expression there is in a pig’s face.”
“Indeed?” said Galatea shortly.
“Of course Reginald is an exceptional pig. He has advantages, and associations, which few pigs enjoy.”
A sharp retort leaped to the girl’s lips, but a glance at the Artist’s perfectly serious and preoccupied expression caused her to stifle it.
“I had a horse once,” he went on, as he limned Reginald’s snout with a sure hand, “who actually smiled in the most convincing manner. There was no mistaking it. I suppose that was because I spent so much time with him. After all, it is not so wonderful if domestic animals do acquire traits of some human friend who gains their confidence and their affection.”
Now this was one of Galatea’s favorite arguments. But, strangely enough, the Artist’s endorsement of it in the present situation did not seem to appeal to her. She drew her chair away from Reginald’s, ignoring his reproaches, and asked:—