“There,” said Wynne; “this is ‘La Source.’ ”
He halted before Ingres’ masterpiece—the slim figure of a naked girl, a tilted pitcher on her shoulder, from which flows a fall of greeny-white water.
“Remarkable, perhaps, but not art.”
“No,” said Vincent, “I don’t like it either, you know. I see what you mean—it isn’t spicy enough, is it?”
“Spicy?”
“Yes—you know. Look here, I was wanting a chance to speak to you alone. I’ve got a bit of money.”
“You are more fortunate than I.”
“I don’t mind you having a bit of it.”
“Oh.”
“The mater and pater get to bed by 10 o’clock, and I could easily slip out after that.”