"'BERTHA, LOOK AT THIS, WILL YOU?'"
"Oh, dear!" cried Bertha, in comical dismay, "I don't know! Peggy Montfort, you are not a dunce at all; you are just shamming. The idea of any one wanting to study anatomy!"
"The idea of wanting to study anything else," cried Peggy, "except physics and geometry. It's this horrible literature and stuff that I cannot bear. But we can't stop and talk, with the box only half unpacked. Oh, pictures! Now I do like pictures, when they are the right kind. Bertha, look at this, will you?"
With difficulty she lifted out a large picture which filled the box from end to end. Both girls uttered a cry of delight. It was the "Automedon" of Henri Regnault. The great horses rearing and plunging, the heroic figure of the charioteer, seemed to take Peggy's breath. "It—it's the kind of thing you dream about, isn't it?" she said. "They are alive; I believe they'll break through the glass in another minute. Oh, there can't be anything else as splendid as this!"
But when she drew out next a fine photograph of "The Night Watch," she hardly knew what to say. The gleaming eyes of the lions, prowling among the ruined columns, fascinated her almost as much as the wild horses had done. She had less to say to the beautiful photograph of the Sistine Madonna, which came next; yet she looked at it with eyes of wistful affection. It was Margaret's favourite picture, and she loved it on that account as well as its own. Yet her taste was for "critters," as she freely acknowledged; and she glowed again as Bertha held up an engraving of "Sheridan's Ride," with the great captain riding straight out of the picture at her.
"That's the kind of thing she wants!" Mr. Montfort had said, when he and his niece Margaret were having their delightful "Peggy-lark," as he called it. "The Sistine by all means, Meg; but no more old masters for our Peggy. She won't understand them, and she won't like them. What was it she said about your pet St. Anthony?"
"She said he looked as if he had gone out for clams and fallen into the mud!" said Margaret, rather ruefully. "I suppose you are right, Uncle John; but, oh, do look at this lovely Murillo angel! How could she help loving this?"
"The anatomy of it would distress her," said Mr. Montfort, dryly. "You know Peggy is strong on anatomy. Better take the 'Automedon.'"
"Which you said was out of drawing!" cried Margaret, with a flash of mischief. "Oh, if you are going to put false ideas into her head, Uncle John—" on which she was very properly told to choose her pictures, and not be saucy.
The last picture in the box had not been chosen in any picture-shop; and at sight of it Peggy sat down on the bed and began to cry.