“Well, it’s middlin’ good.” Uncle William spoke craftily. They were moving toward it.
“It’s great!” said the Frenchman. He swung his eyeglasses to his nose and gazed at it. They came to a standstill a little distance away.
“The house ain’t much to boast on,” said Uncle William, modestly.
“The house?” The Frenchman stared at him politely.
Uncle William motioned with his hand. “It’s a kind o’ ramshackle ol’ thing—no chimbley to speak of—”
The man’s face cleared. “Oh, the house—a mere hut!” He dismissed it with a wave.
Uncle William’s face wore a subdued look. “It might be comf’tabul inside,” he hazarded after a silence.
The Frenchman stared again. “Comfortable? Oh, without doubt.” He granted the point in passing. “But the color in the rocks—do you see?—and the clear light and the sky—you see how it lifts itself!” His long finger made swift stabs here and there at the canvas. A little crowd had gathered near.
Uncle William pushed his spectacles farther up on the tufts. His face glowed. “The sky is all right,” he said, “if ye know how to take it; but ye wouldn’t trust a sky like that, would ye?”
The Frenchman turned to him, blinking a little. His glasses had slipped from his nose. They hung dangling from the end of the long chain. “Trust it?” he said vaguely. “It’s the real thing!”