"It is magnificent!" exclaimed her grandmother. "You have flattered the child, and have done it most delicately,--en homme d'esprit."
"Flattered!" he cried. "Hardly! I have tried to produce the expression which not every one can see in the face. That is the only merit of my poor performance: otherwise it is a daub. I have never seemed to myself so poor a painter as when at work upon this picture." As he spoke he tossed the entire sheaf of brushes which he held in his hand into the chimney place.
"What are you about?" exclaimed the old Countess. "You are in a very odd mood to-day."
"Oh, the brushes were worn out," he replied. "I could not have painted another picture with them."
The blood mounted to Erika's cheek with gratification. She understood him. His agitation and sorrow did not disquiet her now, so convinced was she that it was in her power to dispel them by a single word.
"You must leave the picture with me for a time. When it is dry I will varnish it and send it to you: I must ask you, however, to what address?"
"I hope we shall still continue to see you," the old Countess replied. "I assure you that I entertain a sincere friendship for you. The visits to your studio, although my part in them has been a secondary one, have come to be a pleasant habit, which I shall find it hard to discontinue. We shall always be glad to welcome you wherever we are."
Erika, meanwhile, had approached the painter. "I do not know how to thank you," she said.
"I have done nothing for which thanks are due," he rejoined. "The thanks should come from me. All I ask of you is to bestow a thought now and then upon the poor painter who has enjoyed the sight of you for so long. No, there is one thing more. You will allow me to make a copy of the picture for myself?"
The grandmother interposed: "Go change your dress, Erika."