“Well, come on down, or you’ll smother. What’s happened?”
“I’ll be down in a second,” and then through the fog Paul appeared slowly, descending the stairs carrying a square of canvas.
“Is it hurt?” asked Jane, fearfully. “Oh, Paul!”
“I don’t know. I can’t see it properly yet.” But his face showed that he expected the worst Neither of them spoke a word until they reached the garden again, where Aunt Gertrude pounced upon Jane.
“Oh, child, how you frightened me! Paul, are you quite sure everything’s all right? Oh, how did it start—was there really a blaze?”
“Just a little one—it’s all out—a few rags. I pitched ’em all out of the window. I’m—sorry, Aunt Gertrude.”
“Oh, my poor boy—your picture!”
“What’s the matter? Is it ruined?” asked Carl. Jane said nothing, but stood looking first at her cousin’s face, and then at the smoke-begrimed and blistered canvas on which there was hardly a semblance of the picture that had been so nearly completed.
“Yes,” said Paul, with the calmness of despair, “it’s ruined. It’s ruined all right.”
No one knew what to say, and a silence followed, until Elise asked timidly if he didn’t have time to do another.