“Yes,” he said, as Crowdie sat down, “as my niece is here, we can compare her with her portrait. I’m very much obliged to you for thinking of giving it to me, I’m sure. I hope you’ve brought it.”
Crowdie had grasped the situation at a glance.
“It was meant for my wife—she’s Miss Lauderdale’s most intimate friend, you know,” he said, with fine frankness. “But we consulted about it, and we decided that I should offer you this one and do another for her from the sketches I have. May I have it brought in? It’s rather a big thing, I’m afraid.”
“By all means, let’s see it,” said the old man, touching the bell at his elbow as Crowdie rose. “The men will bring it in all right—you needn’t go, Mr. Crowdie.”
Crowdie went towards the door, however, with an artist’s instinctive anxiety for the safety of his work, and while he was turned away Robert Lauderdale’s eyes met Katharine’s. They both smiled a little at the same moment, admiring the quick-witted ingenuity with which Crowdie had turned the difficulty of presenting the portrait to the old man while Katharine, to whom he had said that it was for her friend,—his wife,—sat looking on.
Two footmen, marshalled and directed by Leek, brought in the picture.
“Set it up on this arm-chair,” said Crowdie. “It will be quite steady—so—a little more to the light—the least bit the other way—that’ll do—thanks. Can you see it well?” he asked, turning to the other two.
“It’s a good picture, isn’t it?” asked Katharine, after they had both gazed at it in silence for a full minute.
“It’s wonderful!” exclaimed the old man, in genuine admiration. “It’s a great picture, Mr. Crowdie. I congratulate you—and myself—and the young lady here,” he added, laying his hand on Katharine’s arm as she sat beside him.
Crowdie was pleased. He knew very well, by long experience, when admiration was real and when it was feigned. Of late years, the true note had rarely failed in the chorus of approval. Whatever he might be as a man, he was a thorough artist, and a very good one, too.