“Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work is—whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious stones.”
“You see,” resumed the painter, “if anybody only glanced at my little picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon.”
“In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?”
“I am no theologian,” said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat coldly.
But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way of it: here might be something new.
“If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be happy,” he said, turning again towards me.
But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation.
“You are very kind,” I said; “but Miss Walton does not presume to be an artist.”
I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie’s countenance. When I turned to Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make amends.
“We are just going to have some coffee,” I said, “for my servants, I see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Walton?”