Neville stared out of the window at the station platform past which they were gliding, and rose with Querida as the train stopped. His sister's touring car was waiting; into it stepped Querida, and he followed; and away they sped over the beautiful rolling country, where handsome cattle tried to behave like genuine Troyon's, and silvery sheep attempted to imitate Mauve, and even the trees, separately or in groups, did their best to look like sections of Rousseau, Diaz, and even Corot—but succeeded only in resembling questionable imitations.
"There's to be quite a week-end party?" inquired Querida.
"I don't know. My sister telephoned me to fill in. I fancy the party is for you."
"For me!" exclaimed Querida with delightful enthusiasm. "That is most charming of Mrs. Collis."
"They'll all think it charming of you. Lord, what a rage you've become and what a furor you've aroused!… And you deserve it," added Neville, coolly.
Querida looked at him, calm intelligence in his dark gaze; and understood the honesty of the comment.
"That," he said, "if you permit the vigour of expression, is damn nice of you, Neville. But you can afford to be generous to other painters."
"Can I?" Neville turned and gazed at Querida, gray eyes clear in their searching inquiry. Then he laughed a little and looked out over the sunny landscape.
Querida's olive cheeks had reddened a trifle.
Neville said: "What is the trouble with my work, anyway? Is it what some of you fellows say?"