He looked at me a little awkwardly as I glanced round at these things.
“Fact is, I dabble a bit in art,” he explained. “I have nothing to do, don't you know, and—er—I always felt drawn to the arts. Amateur work—mere amateur work, as you can see for yourself, but I flatter myself this ain't so bad, eh? Miss Ara—Ara—what the devil's her name?—Titch. Done from memory, of course; I don't want these busybodies here to know what I'm doing.”
“You keep your proficiency a secret, then?” I said, gazing politely at this wonderful work of memory. It was not very like nor very artistic, and I wished to avoid passing any opinion.
“Never told a soul but you, mossoo, and—er—well, there's only one other in the secret.”
Again I smiled to myself.
“It must be delightful to perpetuate the faces of your lady friends,” I remarked.
The old boy smiled with some complacency.