They stood in the door of the gallery and looked in on its emptiness. Pictures stood on the floor and on boxes and chairs. Some of the boxes were still unopened—and only a small part of the pictures taken out had been hung up.
Uncle William looked around him with pleased eyes. “He’s got some new ones out, Andy.”
“Uh-huh.” Andy bent over and peered at one—a little behind the others. He straightened himself quickly and shut his eyes. “They ain’t fit to look at,” he said.
Uncle William bent over and drew the picture out and regarded it with interest. He set it against a box and stood off and looked at it, and looked at it again. “She’s dreadful pretty, ain’t she, Andy?”
Andy opened his eye a crack and withdrew it. “She ain’t decent,” he said firmly.
“You can set with your back to it, Andy,” said Uncle William kindly. “You don’t need to go stun-blind—not to see it.”
“They won’t let him have it on the Island,” said Andy. He sat down and glared at the picture of an innocent cow—of the Dutch school.
“Well, I do’ ’no’, Andy.” Uncle William studied the picture with lenient eyes. “She’s kind o’ young and pretty—The’ ain’t much about this climate in it—” He glanced casually up at the glass roof above them. “Come along winter, now—when the winds get to shrieking and blowing up there—it ’ll seem kind o’ queer to see her standin’ on a hank—like that—all ready to jump in so, won’t it?”
Andy turned his head a little and craned his neck.
“I’ve been in countries,” went on Uncle William, “where that ’d seem putty good—Italy, now—best kind of place—warm and summery always—year ’round. Seems ’s if in this climate we ’d ought to paint furs and woolen goods more. I don’t suppose Benjy knew where he was going to hang his pictures when he bought ’em—just gathered ’em up most anywheres—without thinkin’ how they ’d look hung up.”