“Therein,” quoth Corin bowing, “she shows her judgment. Behold!” He waved his chisel towards the wall.
“Oh!” breathed Rosamund. Just that, and no more.
Corin hugged himself with delight.
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” he ejaculated. “Isn’t it superb, adorable, and dreamy! And heaven knows what more this plaster hides. The unutterable Philistines who smeared and daubed it over from the light of day!”
“Is it not,” suggested Rosamund, “a matter for thankfulness that they did merely smear and daub? It is possible, it is quite conceivable, that they might have scraped.”
Corin shuddered.
“Don’t suggest such a possibility,” he implored. “I’ll confess my thankfulness for the daubing.”
She barely heard him. She was engrossed in the work before her,—red, black, turquoise blue, and crimson, she revelled in its colour. Daring enough it was in parts, in others almost crude in its simplicity. She was drawn, as John had been drawn, back into the bygone ages. Their atmosphere enfolded her, enwrapped her. She saw in the work before her, almost without realizing her thoughts, the interpretation of the mind of the painter. Here was nothing petty, nothing niggled; it was frank, simple, childlike. It was extraordinarily unselfconscious. Therein lay its subtle charm. There was no intricacy of expression; nothing laboured; almost, one might say, nothing preconceived.
“Well?” queried John at last.
“Oh,” she cried, turning towards him, “it’s—it’s so deliciously simple, so utterly unstudied. It’s almost untutored in its crudeness, and yet—I wonder wherein exactly the charm lies?”