“By God!”
“Are they good?” rasped Lawrie.
“No. Damn bad.”
Frederic felt very small.
“I don’t know,” said B. J. Strutt. “I like that one all yellow in the foreground and blue in the distance. And I like that one with the niggers filing through the orange-trees with the pinky-white house beyond.”
“So do I,” cried Beecroft. “I like ’em all. The man can’t draw, but he can feel colour and big distances and lots and lots of air.”
Frederic began to feel better. The old men gathered round the drawings and gave grunts of satisfaction. (They had been very bored all the evening and were glad of something to interest them).
“Where is he?” said Beecroft. “This brother of yours.”
“In Africa. He’s coming home.”
“He’s a genius. Do you know that? A genius.”