Roddy nodded and turned to his task. A silence fell in the bare room, broken by the buzz of a blue-bottle blundering round the chandelier and the sound of water stirred in the glass as the boy washed his paint brushes.
"What are you doing, Roddy?" Jill asked lazily.
"Oh—a ship. It's rotten!" his voice was full of despair. "I can't get the sea—it looks thick and flat—like a blooming table-cloth! Think I shall tear it up..." he paused gloomily, sucking his brush.
"No—don't." With a quick movement Jill rose to her feet. She bent over her brother, an arm thrown round his shoulder.
"It's jolly good. Really, old boy—the ship, I mean. Though the sea's all wrong," she added honestly. "But there's something I like—most awfully—" her grey eyes narrowed, criticizing.
"What?" Roddy lifted a wistful face, with that longing for praise peculiar to the artist, which has nothing to do with vanity but the deeper need for encouragement in the long up-hill fight of creative work.
"It's the way the ship's moving before the wind. It's alive, somehow, and one feels the struggle. It isn't just chased along—it's up against the strong tide—and the slap of the waves..."
"Of course it is." He smiled. "It's getting the full swell round the headland. The drawing's all right—it's the colour that's wrong. I do want some painting lessons!"
"Well, perhaps we'll manage it by-and-bye—next summer holidays. You'd like to go in for Art, wouldn't you, Roddy?"
"Yes." The boy's voice was gruff. He felt too deeply for easy speech.