"And what, Mr. Trevor, if I may ask you this—what is the subject of your next picture? Naturally I wish to know exactly all that is going on round me. That is the only way, is it not, of being able to trace the tendencies of Art? Historical, romantic, realistic—what?"
"I've just begun a portrait of myself," said Frank.
Mrs. Greenock laid down the spoonful of soup she was raising to her lips, as if the mental food she was receiving was more suited to supply her needs than potage à la bonne femme.
"Thank you so much," she ejaculated. "Algernon dear, Mr. Trevor is doing a portrait of himself. Remind me to tell Harry that as soon as we get home. Ah, what a revelation it will be! An artist's portrait of himself—the portrait of you by yourself. That is the only true way for artists to teach us, to show us theirselves—what they are, not only what they look like."
Frank crumbled his bread with subdued violence.
"You have hit the nail on the head," he replied. "That is exactly what I mean to do."
Mrs. Greenock was delighted. This was a sort of testimonial to the superiority of her intellect, written in the hand of a professional.
"Please tell me more," she said, rejecting an entrée.
"There is nothing to tell," he said; "you have got to the root of the matter. A portrait should be, as you say, the man himself, not what he looks like. We are often very different to what we look like, and a gallery of real portraits would be a very startling thing. So many portraits are merely colored photographs. My endeavor is that this shall be something more than that."
"Yes!" said Mrs. Greenock, eagerly.