"Assuredly, or the Corporation of H—— would not have unbuttoned to it. It keeps its heart well within the limits of its waistcoat."
"And the other—the kernel?"
I looked at him and arched an interrogative eyebrow.
"The other picture? 'The Soul of Me?'"
"Of course I've seen it. It's magnificent work, Woll, but I don't like it."
"Crude realism, eh?" he said, leaning sideways and bending a palette knife backwards and forwards on the back of his chair.
"More," I said—"exaggeration."
He paled. I thought it was in offence at my critical presumption.
"There was none," he averred. "You shall see the original sketch," and he paced to an easel that stood, covered with a cloth, in a distant corner. He unveiled it.
"Ugh!" My cry was inevitable. I resisted the impulse to shroud my eyes, but my teeth clenched on words.