“Now you see,” she said.
“In a way,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s making rather heavy weather over a trifle?”
“Oh, can’t you understand? Look!” Her voice dropped as if she was in church, and she switched on another light. It shone on the picture next to old Yeardsley’s. “There!” she said. “Clarence painted that!”
She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to swoon, or yell, or something. I took a steady look at Clarence’s effort. It was another Classical picture. It seemed to me very much like the other one.
Some sort of art criticism was evidently expected of me, so I made a dash at it.
“Er—‘Venus’?” I said.
Mark you, Sherlock Holmes would have made the same mistake. On the evidence, I mean.
“No. ‘Jocund Spring,’” she snapped. She switched off the light. “I see you don’t understand even now. You never had any taste about pictures. When we used to go to the galleries together, you would far rather have been at your club.”
This was so absolutely true, that I had no remark to make. She came up to me, and put her hand on my arm.
“I’m sorry, Reggie. I didn’t mean to be cross. Only I do want to make you understand that Clarence is suffering. Suppose—suppose—well, let us take the case of a great musician. Suppose a great musician had to sit and listen to a cheap vulgar tune—the same tune—day after day, day after day, wouldn’t you expect his nerves to break! Well, it’s just like that with Clarence. Now you see?”