“Yes—look!”
He glanced at her for a moment. Then, holding the long pencil almost by the end and standing well back from the pasteboard, he drew a single line—the outline of the part of the face and head furthest from the eye, as it were. It was so masterly, so simple, so faultless, and yet so striking in its effect, that Katharine held her breath while the point moved, and uttered an exclamation when it stopped.
“You are a great artist!”
Crowdie smiled.
“I didn’t ask for impossible compliments,” he said, repeating her own words and imitating her tone, as he stepped back from the easel and looked at what he had done. “She’s not so bad-looking, is she?” He fumbled in his pocket and found two or three bits of coloured pastels and rubbed a little of each upon the pasteboard with his fingers. “More life-like, now. How do you like that?”
“It’s wonderful!”
“Wonderfully like?”
“How can I tell? I mean that it’s a wonderful performance. It’s not for me to judge of the likeness.”
“Isn’t it? In spite of proverbs, we’re the only good judges of ourselves—outwardly or inwardly. Will you sit down again, if you are rested? Do you know, I’m almost inclined to dab a little paint on the thing—it’s a lucky hit—or else you’re a very easy subject, which I don’t believe.”
“And yet you were so discouraged a moment ago.”