“But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the truth.”
“Well?”
“I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from satisfied with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth nothing, then I found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for them. But I do think, papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, and vexed with myself, than cross with him. But I was very silly.”
“Well, and what did he say?”
“He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of that, for what could he do?”
“You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least.”
“Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much.”
“He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching apparatus this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she answered shyly. “He was so kind that somehow I got heart to try again. He’s very nice, isn’t he?”
My answer was not quite ready.