“Old-fashioned things,—why, they’re all the fashion now, don’t you know?” said Lucia, with a pretty laugh.
Phil did not reply, for he was quite overpowered by what seemed to him the elegance of the Tramlay pictures. He could easily see that the engravings were superior in quality to those to which he was accustomed; he was most profoundly impressed by the paintings,—real oil paintings, signed by artists some of whose names he had seen in art-reviews in New York papers. He studied them closely, one after another, with the earnestness of the person whose tastes are in advance of his opportunities: in his interest he was almost forgetful of Lucia’s presence. But the young woman did not intend to be forgotten, so she found something to say about each picture over which Phil lingered.
Among the paintings was one which had been seen, in the original or replicas, in almost all the picture-auctions which were frequently held in the New York business-district for the purpose of fleecing men who have more money than taste. Sometimes the artist’s name is German, oftener French, and occasionally Italian; the figures and background also differ from time to time as to the nationality, and the picture is variably named “The Parting,” “Good-By,” “Auf Wiedersehen,” “Good-Night,” or “Adieu,” but the canvases all resemble one another in displaying a young man respectfully kissing the hand of a young woman. The Tramlays’ copy of this auctioneer’s stand-by was called “Adieu,” the name being lettered in black on the margin of the frame.
“Why,” exclaimed Phil, with the air of a man in the act of making a discovery, “I am sure I have seen a wood engraving of that painting in one of the illustrated papers.”
“I don’t see why they should do it,” said Lucia; “it’s dreadfully old-fashioned. People don’t say ‘adieu’ in that way nowadays, except on the stage.”
“I thought you said a moment ago that old-fashioned things were all the fashion.”
Lucia shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Kissing hands may come in again.” Then she raised one of her own little hands slightly and looked at it; Phil’s eyes followed hers, and then the young man became conscious of a wish that the old form of salutation might be revived, on special occasions, at least. The thought succeeded that such a wish was not entirely proper, and while he reasoned about it Lucia caught his eye and compelled him to blush,—an act which the young woman perhaps thought pretty, for she immediately imitated it, the imitation being much more graceful and effective than the original. The situation was awkward, and Phil instantly lost his self-possession; but not so Lucia.
“Here,” she said, turning so as to face the wall opposite that on which the mischief-making picture hung, “is papa’s favorite picture. He thinks everything of it; but I say it’s simply dreadful.”
It certainly was. The centre of the canvas, which was enormous, was filled with several columns and a portion of the entablature of a ruined Greek temple.
“It is as large as all the other pictures combined, you see; all the lines in it are straight, and there isn’t anywhere in it a dress, or a bit of furniture, or even bric-à-brac.”