“Hullo?”
“I think perhaps... Just turn its face to the wall, will you?” Lucille gave a little gulp. “It will prevent it getting dusty.”
It perplexed Archie a little during the next few days to notice in Lucille, whom he had always looked on as pre-eminently a girl who knew her own mind, a curious streak of vacillation. Quite half a dozen times he suggested various spots on the wall as suitable for the Venus, but Lucille seemed unable to decide. Archie wished that she would settle on something definite, for he wanted to invite J. B. Wheeler to the suite to see the thing. He had heard nothing from the artist since the day he had removed the picture, and one morning, encountering him on Broadway, he expressed his appreciation of the very decent manner in which the other had taken the whole affair.
“Oh, that!” said J. B. Wheeler. “My dear fellow, you’re welcome.” He paused for a moment. “More than welcome,” he added. “You aren’t much of an expert on pictures, are you?”
“Well,” said Archie, “I don’t know that you’d call me an absolute nib, don’t you know, but of course I know enough to see that this particular exhibit is not a little fruity. Absolutely one of the best things you’ve ever done, laddie.”
A slight purple tinge manifested itself in Mr. Wheeler’s round and rosy face. His eyes bulged.
“What are you talking about, you Tishbite? You misguided son of Belial, are you under the impression that I painted that thing?”
“Didn’t you?”
Mr. Wheeler swallowed a little convulsively.
“My fiancée painted it,” he said shortly.