He had begun already to try, but as yet it was a secret from the world. “Ars est celare artem,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Life is short, art eternal. It is the motto of the old man who teaches me how to clean and renovate these things. He says it keeps him up to his work.”
“You go to an art school?”
“I should hardly call it that. But the master wants me to learn as much as I can of the practical side of the trade, so he’s having me taught. And the more I can pick up about pictures, the better it will be for the business. You see, the master doesn’t pretend to know much about pictures himself. His line is furniture.”
“Didn’t I say you were clever?” June could not help feeling a little proud of her own perception.
“You wouldn’t say that”—the young man’s tone was sad—“if you really knew how little I know. But allow me to show you what I bought at Crowdham Market. There it is.” He pointed to the old picture on the smaller easel, which now divorced from its frame seemed to June a mere daub, black, dilapidated, old and worthless.
She could not conceal her disappointment. “I don’t call that anything.”
“No!” He could not conceal his disappointment either. “Take this glass.” A microscope was handed to her. “Please look at it ve-ry ve-ry closely while I hold it for you in the light.”
June gave the canvas a most rigorous scrutiny, but she had to own at last that the only thing she could see was dirt.