The young artist is not satisfied with his picture. He has a decided artistic bent and talks of going to Rome to study; but this likeness that he is now trying to paint baffles him. It seems to lack something; although the features are correctly drawn, the whole has a strange and unnatural look.
"Béla, come here, little nephew."
The boy left the Newfoundland dog and ran to his uncle.
"Look here, look at this picture and tell me who it is."
The little fellow stared a moment at the painting with his great blue eyes. "A pretty lady," he answered.
"Don't you know your mamma, Béla?" asked the artist.
"My mamma doesn't look like that," declared the boy, and ran back to his four-footed playmate.
"The likeness is good," said Aranka encouragingly; "I am sure it is."
"But I am sure it is not," protested Jenő, "and the fault is yours. When you sit to me you are all the time worrying about Ödön, and that produces exactly the expression I wish to avoid. We want to surprise him with the picture, and he mustn't see you looking so anxious and sad."
"But how can I help it?"