Feeling that his mind would be relieved by taking a decisive step, he opened his desk, and, taking out a sheet of note-paper, had got as far as “Dear Uncle,” when there was a little tap at his door. He rose, and, opening it, discovered Helen and Mr. Sharp.
“Good morning, Helen,” he said, cheered, he knew not why, by her expression; “I am glad to see you.”
“Herbert, you have heard me speak of Mr. Sharp, papa’s friend. He desires to make your acquaintance.”
“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Sharp,” said the young artist, looking a little curiously at the perpetual white hat, whose general appearance age had, by no means, improved.
“Thank you, Mr. Herbert,” said the lawyer, nodding pleasantly. “Excuse my familiar use of your name, but Miss Helen has not mentioned any other.”
“Mr. Coleman, excuse me,” said Helen, blushing a little. “How stupid I am!”
“By no means, my dear young lady. But, Mr. Coleman, Miss Helen has told me that you were an artist, and her commendations of one of your pictures have excited my interest; and I have come to ask, as a favor, that you will allow me to look at it.”
“Certainly, sir. I am afraid, however, that you will find Miss Helen’s friendship has dulled her critical powers. This is probably the painting to which you refer.”
In a moment of despondency, he had turned his painting of the “Country Farm-house” to the wall. The high hopes which he had formed of its success, and their signal failure, produced a revulsion of feeling, which made it unpleasant for him to look at it.
“This is indeed beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, admiringly. (In this case he was sincere, though, had it been the merest daub, he would have expressed equal admiration.) “Mr. Coleman, I congratulate you. There are touches in that painting which indicate genius of a high order. I predict that you will, ere many years, achieve a high place in the roll of our native artists.”