“I like to look at them; and I’ll praise them, too, if that is what you want. But you always say you want criticism.”
“And so I do, but I don’t care to be made fun of.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you; I was merely pointing out the things I know are wrong. And what I said may be nothing against the picture as a work of art; it may be a masterpiece, for all I know about such things.” This he said, being willing to pour still more oil on the troubled waters.
“You didn’t say anything at all about the colouring.”
“Because I don’t know anything at all about colour—unless it’s the colour of your eyes and hair. Let’s drop it, Isabel, and talk about something of a great deal more importance—to me. When are you going to put me out of my misery?”
The time was ill chosen, and she answered him accordingly:
“That is dead and buried; there is no use in going back to it.”
“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “I have waited pretty patiently for a long time, Isabel, and—and—well, I can’t wait always.”
But Isabel was still tingling with pique, and she replied without so much as turning her head.
“End it, then. I never asked you to wait.”