“Oh, very well. Miss Sommerton,—‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter.’ Oh, by the way, I forgot the address. That is the first sentence of the letter, but the address is some number which I cannot quite see, ‘Beacon Street, Boston.’ Is there any such street in that city?”
“There is,” said Miss Sommerton. “What a question to ask.”
“Ah, then Beacon Street is one of the principal streets, is it?”
“One of them? It is the street. It is Boston.”
“Very good. I will now proceed with the letter. ‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter, because the sketches you send are so bad, that it seems to me no one could seriously forward them to an artist for criticism. However, if you really desire criticism, and if the pictures are sent in good faith, I may say I see in them no merit whatever, not even good drawing; while the colours are put on in a way that would seem to indicate you have not yet learned the fundamental principle of mixing the paints. If you are thinking of earning a livelihood with your pencil, I strongly advise you to abandon the idea. But if you are a lady of leisure and wealth, I suppose there is no harm in your continuing as long as you see fit.—Yours truly, JOHN TRENTON.’”
Miss Sommerton, whose eyes had opened wider and wider as this reading went on, said sharply—
“He has shown you the letter. You have seen it before it was sent.”
“I admit that,” said the artist.
“Well—I will believe all you like to say about Mr. John Trenton.”
“Now, stop a moment; do not be too sweeping in your denunciation of him. I know that Mr. Trenton showed the letter to no one.”