"Why, Mr. Blauvelt, I'm not an art critic."
"Yes, you are,—one of the class I paint for. Our best critics are our patrons, cultivated people."
"I should never think of patronizing you."
"Perhaps you might entertain the thought of encouraging me a little, if you felt that I was worth it."
"Now, Mr. Blauvelt, notwithstanding the rural surroundings, you must remember that I was bred in the city. I know the sovereign contempt that you artists have for the opinions of the people. When it comes to art, I'm only people."
"No such generalization will answer in your case. You have as distinct an individuality as any flower blooming on this hillside."
"There are flowers and flowers. Some are quite common."
"None are commonplace to me, for there is a genuine bit of nature in every one. Still you are right: I was conscious of the fragrance from this eglantine-bush here, until you came."
"Oh, then let me go at once."
"I beg that you will not. You are the eglantine in human form, and often quite as briery."