Then to my amazement he gave rather a favourable verdict. It comforted me, for Clement never says anything that he does not mean.
“It’s not half bad, Margery! Wait till you see mine! How did you get the tints of that hillside? You’ve a very truthful mind, that’s one thing, and a very true eye as well. I do admire the way you abstain from filling up with touches that mean nothing.”
“Oh, Clement!” cried I, so gratified that I began to feel ready to go on again. “Do you really think I can make anything of it?”
“Nothing more,” said Clement. “Don’t put another touch. It’s unfinished, but no finishing would do any good. We’ve got an outlandish subject and a bad time of day. But keep it just as it is, and three months hence, on a cool day, you’ll be pleased when you look at it.”
“Perhaps if I went on a little with the foreground,” I suggested; but even as I spoke, I put my hand to my head.
“Go to Eleanor in the ravine, at once,” said Clement imperatively. “I’ll bring your things. What did make us such fools as to come out without umbrellas?”
“We came out in the cool of the morning,” said I, as I staggered off; “besides, it’s almost impossible to hold one and paint too.”
Once in the ravine, I dropped among the long grass and ferns, and the damp, refreshing coolness of my resting-place was delicious.
Eleanor was not faint, neither had she been crying; but she was not much happier with her sketch than I had been with mine. The jutting group of birch-trees was well chosen, and she had drawn them admirably. But when she came to add the confused background of trees and undergrowth, her very outline had begun to look less satisfactory. When it came to colour—and the midday sun was darting and glittering through the interstices of the trees, without supplying any effects of chiaroscuro to a subject already defective in point and contrast—Eleanor was almost in despair.
“Where’s Jack?” said I, after condoling with her.