“No; don’t do that!” cried the young man. “Here! I’ll repaint the whole wall for you free of charge.”
“What do you know about R. Noovo art? Besides, paints cost money.”
“I’ll furnish the paint, too,” offered the reckless youth. “I’m crazy about art. It’s the only solace of my declining years. And,” he added cunningly and with evil intent to flatter and cajole, “I can tone down that design of yours without affecting its beauty and originality at all.”
Touched by this ingenuous tribute hardly less than by the appeal to his frugality, the Estate accepted the offer. From four to five on the following afternoon, Martin Dyke, appropriately clad in overalls, sat on a plank and painted. On the afternoon following that the lady of the house came home at four-thirty and caught him at it.
“That’s going to be ever so much nicer,” she called graciously, not recognizing him from the view of his industrious-appearing back.
“Thank you for those few kind words.”
“You!” she exclaimed indignantly as he turned a mild and benevolent beam of the eye upon her. “What are you doing to my house?”
“Art. High art.”
“How did you get up there?”
“Ladder. High ladder.”