Cyn. (astonished). What on earth do you mean? You don’t want to paint a hen-house, do you?
Lee. Paint a——(Suddenly realizes what she means.) Oh, no, no, of course not! I get you now! You—you don’t understand me, of course. Well, I have to work where there’s nothing to look at.
Cyn. Land o’ goshen, what do you paint?
Lee (airily). Oh, anything, any little thing I take a fancy to. I have a good long look at it, and then I paint it from memory. If I should look at the object I was painting I shouldn’t paint, I should just sit and look.
Cyn. Well, I never heard the beat!
Lee. Odd, isn’t it? I suppose you have heard of the impressionist art. Well, I belong to a new line. It’s called the memorist art.
Cyn. You don’t say? Well, folks are never satisfied. They’re always getting up something new. Land, if you’re so newfangled as all that (glancing at table), I don’t know as I’ll be able to suit you.
Lee (starting toward stairs). I should worry! I may have an up-to-date line of art, but I’ve got an old-fashioned stomach.
[Exit by stairs.
Cyn. (looking after him and smiling). Land sakes!