But Helen had overheard. A dash of red shot into her cheeks, as her shoulders gave a nervous shrug. The dealer looked from the beautiful to the plain girl with that sense of contrast between the two which Helen had felt a thousand times.
"Where do I begin?" he asked, almost perfunctorily.
Some one had told Helen that one should blow one's own trumpet to an art dealer; that many an artist had been started on a career by making the most of his personality. But when she was conscious of how poor her drawings were she could not play the herald of her own skill. As for personality, one must have something to start with.
"Those four I picked out for the least bad," she said, handing them to him.
Not a sign on the dealer's face, as he looked them through, while her temples throbbed.
"More academic than the one I had seen—better drawing, but——" he shook his head.
The throbbing ceased. Helen knew the truth. There would be no exhibition. She felt faint; there was no heart left in her.
"And these?" asked M. Vailliant, looking at a time-coloured board on top of a pile on a chair.
"Discarded. They were too awful—some of them just dashed off for fun."
"Oh!"