“How interesting!” exclaimed Katharine. “And it sounds true.”
“A thing must sound true to be interesting,” said Crowdie. “Excuse me a moment. I want another colour.”
He dived into the curtained recess, and Katharine watched the disagreeable undulation of his movements as he walked. She wondered why she was interested as soon as he talked, and repelled as soon as he was silent. Much of what he said was more or less paradoxical, she thought, and not altogether unlike the stuff talked by cynical young men who pick up startling phrases out of books, and change the subject when they are asked to explain what they mean. But there was something more in what he said, and there was the way of saying it, and there was the weight a man’s sayings carry when he is a real master of one thing, no matter how remote from the subject of which he is speaking. Crowdie came back almost immediately with his paint.
“Your eyes are the colour of blue fox,” he remarked, dabbing on the palette with his brush.
“Are they? They’re a grey of some sort, I believe. But you were talking about the soul.”
“Yes, I know I was; but I’m glad I’ve done with it. I told you that language wasn’t my strong point.”
“Yes—but you may be able to say lots of interesting things, besides painting well.”
“Not compared with people who are good at talking. I’ve often been struck by that.”
He stopped speaking, and made one or two very careful strokes, concentrating his whole attention for the moment.
“Struck by what?” asked Katharine.