"These are his pictures," answered the old gentleman, "works of art—very much so, the highest art inspired by the truest genius."
Miss Lambert—for the June-like apparition was Miss Lambert—followed with her little face the sweep of the old gentleman's arm as he pointed out the highest art inspired by the truest genius. Rough studies, canvases turned face to the wall, and one or two small finished pictures.
Then, realising that he had found an innocent victim, he began to expatiate on art and on the pictures around them, and she to listen, innocence attending to ignorance.
"He is very clever, isn't he?" put in Miss Lambert, during a pause in the exordium.
"A genius, my dear young lady, a genius," said Mr Verneede, looking at her over his shoulder as he replaced on a high bracket a little picture he had reached down to show her.
"One of the few living artists who can paint light. I may say that he paints light with a delicacy and an elegance all his own. Fiat Lux"—the shelf came down with a crash and a cloud of dust—"as the poet says—pray don't move, I will restore the débris—as the poet says. Now the gem of my young friend Leavesley's collection, in my mind, is the John the Baptist."
He went to a huge canvas which stood with its face to the wall, seized it with arms outstretched, and turned it towards the girl.
It was a picture of a semi-nude female after Reubens that the blundering old gentleman had seized upon.
"Observe the sunlight on the beard," came the voice of the showman from behind the canvas, "the devotion in the eyes, the—ooch!!"