"But, my dear Mr. Blythe—"
"I want to be let alone," he repeated irritably. "I came out here to paint and to enjoy privately my own paintings."
If what stood on his easel was a sample of his pictures, nobody was likely to share his enjoyment.
"Your work," said I, politely, "is—is——"
"Is what!" he snapped. "What is it—if you think you know?"
"It is entirely, so to speak, per se—by itself—"
"What the devil do you mean by that?"
I looked at his picture, appalled. The entire canvas was one monotonous vermillion conflagration. I examined it with my head on one side, then on the other side; I made a funnel with both hands and peered intently through it at the picture. A menacing murmuring sound came from him.
"Satisfying—exquisitely satisfying," I concluded. "I have often seen such sunsets—"
"What!"