'It is only my foolishness, my love,' said Miss Browne, gathering them up again; 'but I get a great deal of pleasure out of it. The days the mail comes and I get the papers, I am so excited I don't know what to do. You get into the way of feeling it really is yourself.'
But this phase of Miss Browne was beyond Challis's comprehension, and she only looked doubtfully at the papers, so Miss Browne was swift to change the subject.
'These letters,' she said, 'are to the Melbourne and Adelaide art societies. I should like to tell you about this, my love. Your father, about four years ago, painted a picture, and something happened that made him try to burn it. Well, we managed to prevent that, and I got hold of it and hid it away. He has forgotten all about it now, imagines I sold it, but I haven't, and it occurred to me lately to write to several artists and describe the picture to them, and see if they would buy it. I did not mention your father's name; just said it was by a friend of mine—you will forgive me for the liberty, my love?'
'But didn't you send the picture?' said Challis. 'They could hardly tell from a description.'
'I had no money,' said Miss Browne, sighing 'I made inquiries at Wilgandra, but it would cost so much to have it packed and sent to Sydney. And there is the risk of losing it. I was very careful over the description; it took me five long evenings to write—I left no detail out.'
'And what happened?' said Challis.
Miss Browne flushed.
'Courtesy seems dying out,' she said. 'Not one of them answered. It might have been any lady writing—they could not know it was only I.'
Challis asked more questions about the picture. She asked to be shown it, and waited patiently while Miss Browne disinterred it from under the bed, and took off the old counterpane with which it was wrapped.
'I have never seen any great picture-galleries,' said Miss Browne, 'but I know there is something about this that must be good. It could not work up the feelings in me that it does, if it were just an ordinary picture. Look at the man's eyes, my love—isn't the hopelessness frightful?—and yet look at him well. You just know he'll keep on trying and trying till he gets there.'