“I’m afraid I haven’t done full justice to my subject,” he said, “but the next sitting will remedy that somewhat. The detail comes later, you know. You’re not disappointed, I trust?”
“Disappointed!” breathed Harry. “I think it’s beautiful! Only—only—” she paused, “I suppose artists are like photographers, aren’t they? I mean that they sort of change things to suit themselves?”
“Change things? Oh, yes, sometimes; that is, we idealize things. What are you thinking of, the water?”
“Yes, and—”
“I deepened it a few shades. It throws out the figure, you see. Observe how the white gown stands out against it.”
“Ye-es,” said Harry, “and I daresay you have to flatter folks too, don’t you? Idealize them, I mean.”
“Sometimes, but not on this occasion,” replied the artist smilingly. Harry gave a gasp.
“Do you mean,” she cried, turning to him with wide eyes, “that I really look like that?”
“Well, as near as I could do it, young lady, I put you into that picture just as you are. I hope I haven’t made you vain?”
But Harry was looking raptly at the picture again. Presently: