“Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not over complimentary to my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my astute critic, when she added, after a moment’s further inspection—
“‘No; they’re sheep. Look ye now, I know! They’re sheep.’
“‘Pray, don’t touch the paint,’ I suggested, approaching her in some alarm. ‘It is wet, and comes off.’
“She drew back cautiously; and then, as a preliminary to further conversation, sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easiness, not to say boldness, about her manner, tempered though it was with gusts of bashfulness, which began to amuse me.
“‘Can you paint faces?’ she asked dubiously.
“I replied that I could even aspire to that accomplishment, by which I understood her to mean portrait painting, if need were. She gave a quiet nod of satisfaction.
“There was a painter chap came to Aberglyn last summer, and he painted William Jones.’
“‘Indeed?’ I said, with an assumption of friendly interest.
“‘Yes; I wanted him to paint me, but he wouldn’t. He painted William Jones’s father though, along o’ William Jones.’
“This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at the girl more observantly. It had never occurred to me till that moment that she would make a capital picture,—just the sort of ‘study’ which would fetch a fair price in the market. I adopted her free and easy manner, which was contagious, and sat down on the grass opposite to her.