He turned sharply upon me.
'Why?'
'My mother played them.' There seemed no reason, for all his brusquerie, why I should not tell him this.
'Didn't play the fiddle, did she?' 'Divinely,' I told him.
'And the 'cello?' 'Yes.'
'Singular,' he said. 'Oh, ah, foreign lady. Yes, of course. Not at all remarkable. Good morning. Don't forget the Fridays. Glad to see you.'
As he was going out he caught sight of the portfolio of sketches. He stopped and turned them over without remark or apology until he came to one which pleased him. It was a large sketch, sixteen inches by twelve, in water-colour, and had some little finish. He held it up and took it to the light.
'I meant to say just now, but I forgot it, he said, turning the picture upside down and looking at it so—'I meant to tell you that you're making a mistake in painting so small. A larger canvas would suit your style. Let me have this, now, in oil. Say eighty by sixty. Give you fifty pounds for it. What do you say?'
What was I likely to say? I told him I would do my best.
'I know that,' he answered. 'Couldn't help it. Good morning.'