"Indeed!" he replied, with a sharp keen glance, "what's your style, sir?"
"Oh, I merely sketch; sometimes in water colours, but generally in chalks. Very rude attempts, I assure you."
"It's a glorious gift, any portion of power to transfer living nature to dead canvass or paper. Miss Vernon tells me that she would give worlds to be a painter, and yet she will not even try to draw."
"I do try," she exclaimed, "I feel my eyesight failing fast in the effort; but you cannot force nature, and she did not intend me for a proficient in your noble art."
"Pooh, pooh," cried Winter, "don't tell me that with your eye for the beautiful, for colors, for grace (look at the arrangement of those flowers, Captain Egerton), that you have no genius for painting; you have been shamefully neglected, and all your talents forced into another species of harmony, more fashionable but infinitely inferior."
And he puffed, wiped his forehead, and swallowed his cup of tea at a gulp.
"Mr. Winter, I will not allow you to misrepresent yourself," said Miss Vernon, "you love music in your very soul; do not pretend to think it inferior for the sake of argument!"
"It is inferior; painting appertains more to the intellect than music," rejoined Winter stoutly.