The decorator furled his tongue, lifted his head, changed his crayon, replied, “Hello, Lad,” and continued his work. “What d’ you think of that?” he added, after a moment, triumphantly pointing a yellow crayon at the green-headed red-bird.
“Some parrot!” enthused Julien.
“‘T ain’t a parrot. It’s a nightingale,” retorted the artist indignantly. “You black-and-white fellows never do understand color.”
“It’s a corker, anyway,” said Julien. “Dad here’s a—an art patron who wants to contribute to the cause.”
The girl, whose face had become flushed and almost frightened, held out her quarter.
“I—I—don’t know,” she began. “I was interested in your picture and I thought—Mr. Tenney said—”
Peter Quick Banta took the coin with perfect dignity. “Thank you,” said he. “There ain’t much appreciation of art just at this season. But if you’ll come down to Coney about June, I’ll show you some sand-modeling that is sand-modeling—‘s much as five dollars a day I’ve taken in there.”
Miss Holland recovered her social poise.
“I’d like to very much,” she said cheerfully.
She and Julien walked on in silence. Suddenly he laughed, a little jarringly. “Well,” he said, “does that help you to place me?”