“Poor Dan!” exclaimed Uncle Robert. “I’ll wager he is sick of my gift of the gab and would rather go with you and Phyllis.”
“No, no!” Dan contradicted. “Go on talking. I like it, and, more than that, I am busy getting your portrait.”
“Eh, what?” ejaculated Uncle Robert, not understanding.
“It is not when you sit to me that I take your portrait,” observed Dan enigmatically. “I learn up your face when you are your natural self, talking as now. I do not put on canvas the expression you give me when you sit to me.”
“Ah, I see!” broke in Uncle Robert. “‘Nature is Art’s handmaid,’ and Dryden says: ‘For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.’ You paint portraits, Dan, not pictures that might be anybody almost. You will make a big name one day, young man. But take care of those precious eyes of yours.”
“I mean to,” said Dan. “Do you know, Mr. Burns, I was feeling absolutely suicidal when you sent for me to come here to recruit. The folks at home, as you know, had always resented my taking to the brush. It was natural, perhaps, for I am the man of the family, my father being gone. But an old aunt who has lived with us ever since I can remember, and who is a regular wet blanket—not to say more—told me that it was a judgment on me that my eyes went wrong. My sister Isabel, too, who is a teacher at the James Allen School at Dulwich, and who is really fond of me, had such a fit of the blues over me that I got doubly depressed. My mother, as you know, is a malade imaginaire, so really I began, as I said, to feel quite suicidal. Then I came here and you all cheered me up. I began to hope immediately I set foot in Hawk’s Nest.”
“You cheered us up, old man,” said Uncle Robert warmly. “And while I think of it, your sister might like to spend her holiday at Hastings, and it would be a charity to Annie, who has only an old fogey like me in the house since Philip went away. No, Dan! don’t begin any thanking rot! It would be a favor to us, not to your sister. We have never seen her, but if you are a fair sample, the more we see of your family the better.”
“You should invite Aunt Lizzie,” said Dan, laughing. “You wouldn’t want any more of our family after that! Aunt Lizzie is one of the most dismal and most aggravating creatures on earth, I should think. I never remember seeing her smile. She is plain—she is not responsible for that. She is plain of speech—for that she is responsible. She never forgave my mother for marrying a Catholic, even though my mother did not change her religion. She was outraged, too, that I as a boy should be brought up in my father’s faith, though Isabel was brought up in our mother’s. When poor old Father Doughty calls at the house, Aunt Lizzie retires to her bed-chamber. Yet she is really one of the most unselfish people in the world.”
“I don’t think we will invite your Aunt Lizzie,” said Mr. Burns with decision.