Clementine laughed. “Not a bad beginning,” he said; “but you want to be very sure of the alternative. No good pushing over a house if you can’t build a better. You didn’t know your grandfather—no end of a fine fellow he was—used his brain and his hands to some effect. He was an artist.”
“Oh, was he?” said Wynne, with a shade of disappointment. He had never been told before.
“Doesn’t that please you?”
“I don’t know, Uncle. I think it would be nice to be an artist, but—”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got some pictures at home, and they don’t seem very nice.”
“Ah, they wouldn’t. But there are all sorts of pictures, and perhaps yours are the wrong sort. Now, your grandfather painted the right sort. Here, wait a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a letter-case. “There!” taking a photograph from one compartment. “This is a copy of one of his pictures. Look at it. A faun playing his pipe to stupid villagers. D’you see the expression on his face? He looks very serious, doesn’t he, and yet you and I know that he’s laughing. Can you guess why he’s laughing?”
Wynne took the photograph and studied it carefully. At length he said:
“He’s laughing because they can’t understand the tune he’s playing.”
“Bravo!” cried Uncle Clem, and clapped him on the back. “Any more?”