Under her penetrating sympathy Matt found courage to say: “I’m sorry Mr. Strang got streaked.”
“Streaked?” echoed Madame, opening her eyes, as with a vision of broadcloth brushing against wet canvases.
“I mean angry,” said Matt, confusion streaking his own face with red.
“Yes, I remember now,” said madam, sweetly. “It’s an American word.”
“Yes; it was in America that I heard of Mr. Strang,” he replied, slowly, striving to accentuate his words, as though he were reading them from a school-book.
“Indeed?” Madame flushed now.
“Yes, I heard of his fame as a painter.”
“Ah.” Her eyes sparkled. Roses leaped into her blond cheeks. “I always told him his work was admirable,” she cried, in exultant excitement, “but he is so easily discouraged.”
Matt thrilled with a sense of the man’s greatness.
“So you see,” he said, with a quaver of emotion in his voice, “I was just wild to see him.”