“I think it would be perfectly scrum to be in an Academy picture,” Winnie exclaimed. “I wish he would ask me.”
Perfectly “scrum,” or “scrumptious,” was Winnie’s superlative; while Adelaide, to express a similar delight, would have quoted the Anglicism, “Quite too far more than most awfully delicious.”
“I wonder what his Academy picture is, anyway,” Winnie went on, “and why he never shows it to us. I mean to ask him to let me see it; I am sure I might help him with some suggestions.”
“Well you are unassuming,” I exclaimed, never dreaming that Winnie, with all her audacity, would dare to criticise a picture by our professor. What was my astonishment, therefore, on awakening the next morning, to find that Winnie was already dressed.
“I am going into the studio,” she remarked coolly, “to take a look at Professor Waite’s picture before he arrives.”
“O Winnie!” I begged, “don’t; you’ve no business to do such a thing.” Winnie made a little face, courtesied, and flounced out of the room. She returned presently, all aglow with excitement.
“He was already there at work,” she exclaimed, “painting, as the French say, like an enragé. He had forgotten to bolt the door and I slipped right in. His back was toward me, and he did not notice me at first, so I had one good solid look. And what do you suppose it is, Tib? Why, Adelaide, holding a candle and glancing over her shoulder as he must have seen her going down the stairs. The Rembrandtesque effect of artificial light and deep shadow is stunning. He has rigged up his lay-figure on the landing in the dark turret, and had a lighted candle wedged into her woodeny fingers, so that he gets the lighting on the face and drapery, while he has daylight on his canvas.
“Of course he has had to do the face from imagination or memory, but it was perfect. I screamed right out: ‘Don’t touch that again or you’ll spoil it!’ He turned the canvas back forward quicker than a wink, and looked at me as if he would like to eat me, but I didn’t care, and I begged him not to disturb himself or interrupt his work on my account; that I had only dropped in in a friendly way to give him a little helpful criticism. With that he put on his eye-glasses and remarked; ‘Well, you are about the coolest young lady that it has ever been my privilege to meet,’ but he had to come right down from that nifty position, for I said, ‘If my opinions are of no use, perhaps Madame’s will be more helpful; shall I ask her to come up and take a look at the picture?’ That made him wince. He turned all sorts of colors, chewed his mustache, and hadn’t a word to say. I felt sort of sorry for him and I assured him that I had no intention of telling, at least not if he was nice; and I reminded him that he owed the subject to me in the first place, for if I had not suggested the trick he would never have seen Adelaide in that particular lighting. With that he changed his tune and said that he was very grateful for my kind intention, and that if I would kindly lend him a photograph of Adelaide he would be still more grateful. But I told him that I did not think that it was fair to exhibit a portrait of Adelaide, and he admitted that it was not, and said that he had decided not to send the picture to the exhibition, but merely to keep it himself.”
Adelaide happened to knock at our door at this juncture, and Winnie told her what she had discovered.
“This is past endurance,” Adelaide exclaimed angrily; “you must come with me, Tib, and insist on Professor Waite’s showing me this picture. If the face is recognizable as my portrait I shall destroy it then and there.”