Herbert relinquished the brush and threw himself upon his back on the couch, puffing lazily at his cigarette.
“By Jove!” he said, after ten minutes, “you’ve put that in all right. But what a juicy style you’ve got! Where did you get that from?”
“I can’t do it any other way,” said Matt, apologetically.
“The governor told me you’re under Tarmigan. He never taught you that?”
“No; but that’s the way I’ve always worked. I did a lot of portraits in Nova Scotia.”
“The devil you did! No wonder you’ve made money, confound you! I thought you were a blooming ignoramus just come over to learn your pictorial pothooks and hangers.”
“I thought so, too,” said Matt, flushing with pleasure and modesty.
“None of your sarcasm, you beggar. You can finish the head if you like.”
“Thank you,” said Matt, flutteringly. He felt as if Herbert were heaping coals of fire upon his own head, repaying his first secret depreciation by over-generous praise. He painted away bravely, soon losing himself in the happy travail of execution.
“I must come down to your place and see your work,” said Herbert, looking up from the volume of Swinburne in which he had immersed himself.