“I told you before,” she answered, softly, “that I don’t know how to paint.”
“But you have something charming on your easel, now,” said Valentin, “if you would only let me see it.”
She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back of the canvas—those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in spite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire. “My painting is not charming,” she said.
“It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle,” quoth Valentin, gallantly.
She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him. He looked at it, and in a moment she said, “I am sure you are a judge.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I am.”
“You know, then, that that is very bad.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders “let us distinguish.”
“You know that I ought not to attempt to paint,” the young girl continued.
“Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not.”