“Well, now, then, sit down, sit down, both of you,” the old man rattled on. “That's right. There, now we can proceed to business. Chris, Mr. Bacharach here, an old customer of mine, is a painter, an artist—with an especial eye to fine bits of coloring, hey, Mr. Bacharach?”
“Oh,” Christine responded softly, her eyes brightening, and the pale rose tint deepening a little in her cheeks; “are you the Mr. Bacharach who painted that beautiful picture of Sister Helen at the last exhibition?”
“It's very kind of you to call it beautiful,” said Elias, immensely surprised and flattered to find himself thus recognized by his work; especially flattered, because he spoke sincerely when he added, “I myself was discouraged about it. It's so entirely inadequate to the poem, you know.”
“Why, it didn't seem so to me. On the contrary I never quite appreciated the poem till I saw your picture—never quite felt all the terror of it. I think you made it wonderfully vivid. I remember how she bent over the fire, and how fierce her eyes were, and how her hair streamed down her breast and shoulders; and then, the great, dark room, and the balcony, and the moonlight outside! Oh, I liked the picture—I can't tell you how much.”
“Well,” broke in old Redwood, “you two seem to be old friends. I don't see as there was much use of my introducing you. But what I should like to know is, who was it a picture of? Whose Sister Helen?”
“Why, Rossetti's,” explained Christine, laughing. “The heroine of one of Rossetti's poems.”
“Oh, so,” said the old man, with an inflection of disappointment.
“Are you fond of Rossetti, Miss Redwood?” Elias asked. “I noticed you had his volume on the table, when I came in.”
“Oh, I adore him. Don't you? I think it's the most beautiful poetry that ever was written—though, to be sure, I haven't read all. But I don't know any body else that agrees with me—unless you do. Now, my father, for instance. I was reading one of the sonnets aloud to him this very evening—just before the bell rang. He—what do you suppose? He laughed at it, and called it rubbish.”
“I did, for a fact,” admitted Redwood. “I can't get the hang of that rigmarol. It's too mixed up.”