“No, no; that’s crazy,” he said. Then he frowned suddenly. “Well, it will all come out soon—the truth—as much as people ever get of the truth.”
“Where do you want to hang this?”
He stopped and came back, studying a long time the canvas she held up, a study of sunlight through the foliage that flung spattered shadows across a group of urchins.
“Like that?” he said suddenly.
“I like it the best.”
“You do?”
She smiled and nodded.
“I thought that a great picture when I painted it—where was it? Yes, at Étretat,” he said moodily. “Wonder how good it really is? So you like it best, do you?”
“It’s so sure and daring; and there’s something that draws you into it.”