“I only see dirt and smudge,” said June the downright. “To my mind this isn’t a picture at all.”
“Surely, you can see a windmill?”
“A windmill! Why there’s not a sign of one.”
“Wait till it’s really clean,” said William with the optimism of genius. He took up a knife and began delicately to scrape that dark surface from which already he had half removed a top layer of paint that some inferior artist had placed there.
June shook her head. There was a lovely fall in the young man’s voice but it would take more than that to convince her. She believed her eyes to be as good as most people’s, but even with a microscope and William’s finger to help them they could see never a sign of a cloud or so much as a hint of water. As for a tree!... and a windmill!... either this handsome young man ... he really was handsome ... had a sense that ordinary people had not ... or ... or...!
V
June suddenly remembered that she must go and lay the supper.
William modestly asked to be allowed to help.
“Can you lay supper?” Polite the tone, but June was inclined to think that here was the limit to William’s cleverness.
“Oh, yes, Miss June, I lay it nearly always. It’s part of my work.”