“True,” said the girl with the Roman nose. “Oh, Marion, shall you also visit Lola this year?”
“Not this century,” replied the girl with the eyeglasses. “Didn’t you hear what happened the last time she was here?”
“Why, no; except that she was to dine with you. What happened? Did she discuss art in a monologue from soup to coffee? or, did—”
“Yes, she did that; but it wouldn’t have really mattered, except for—you see it was this way: when she was here last summer, she gave me one of her, well, she calls them paintings. I accepted it with profuse thanks; and hung it in the darkest corner of the attic as soon as her train was well out of Chicago. When I heard that she was coming back, I fished the picture out of its corner, and gave it a prominent place in the parlor, telling her it had been there all the time.”
“Well, I’m sure she ought to be satisfied with that,” said the president; “not many people care enough for Lola to hang her pictures even temporarily on the parlor walls. The one she gave me is in the cook’s bedroom—the poor woman has been complaining of insomnia lately.”
“No wonder. Unluckily I forgot to coach my family, and when we came in from the dinner table, my brother Frank joined us. You know Lola is pretty when she remembers to comb her hair and remove her painting apron.”
“Mercy on us! did he criticise her painting while she was present?”
“No. He only said, ‘Hello, where did you get this new picture? I never saw it before. Looks like the one that has been vegetating in the attic!’”
“You needn’t tell us the rest, dear; we all know Lola. It was too bad, when you had only done it to spare her feelings, too!”
“Dear! dear!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “I wonder why the most hopeless artists are ever the most generous with their productions? They seem to wish to give them away, whereas—”