"But it's an unhealthy way of doing things," said Margery. "I wish he was more regular."
"The wind bloweth where it listeth," said Jack, "and it blows very often on him. Isn't that enough?"
"Well, then, I wish I had a barometer," said she. "The hurricane comes down without warning. But I'm not nervous—at least, I don't mean to be. It is just one of Frank's ridiculous notions. All the same, as he said last night, when he does do a really good portrait it has a very definite effect on him."
"In what way? I don't understand."
"Do you remember his picture of Mr. Bracebridge? It was in the Academy the year after his portrait of me, though it was painted first. You know every one said it was wicked to paint a thing like that—that he might as well have painted Mr. Bracebridge without any clothes on as without any body on."
"Without any body on?"
"Yes; somehow—even I felt it, and I am not artistic—Frank managed to paint his soul. I could have written an exhaustive analysis of Mr. Bracebridge's character from that portrait."
"And the effect on Frank?"
"Mr. Bracebridge is a charming man, you know," said Margery, "but he is really unable to tell the truth. It sounds very ridiculous, but for six weeks Frank really became the most awful liar."
Jack stopped short.