Mr. Wheelock was inspecting the card.
“Paul Winkler! That young feller I seen around here a lot with you folks? Did he make this pitcher?”
“Yes,” said Jane proudly.
“I declare! Now I call that right smart. If it ain’t Mrs. Lambert to the life I’ll eat my hat.” And he set it up on his desk again, leaning against the wall. Jane looked at it intently. If only she knew just how good it was. She did not feel that Mr. Wheelock was exactly an authoritative critic—then she remembered again that Paul had said it wasn’t “so bad,” and that settled her doubts.
It was, in fact, in spite of the crudities of which Paul had been very well aware, a piece of work that might have done credit to many a more experienced painter; and there were things in it that neither Jane nor Mr. Wheelock saw, vigor and harmony and beauty, over and above the superficial likeness to Mrs. Lambert that Mr. Wheelock found so amazing.
“You’ll send it off right away, Mr. Wheelock? And—and let me know how much it costs. I can’t pay before Saturday.”
He laughed.
“I’ll try to get along ’til then. Don’t you bother your head, child.”
Satisfied, though full of hope and fear, Jane went home.
The family gathered for its noonday meal, Mr. Lambert taking his seat at the head of the table, grave and pompous as always in his well-brushed black coat. The difference of one place seemed to make the table unnaturally small, and yet no one seemed to notice it. Mr. Lambert talked about some man that had been in to see him, about the prospects of the new courthouse being finished, about the harvests. His family docilely listened to him, interpolating the proper question or remark here and there. Paul’s name was not mentioned, it being tacitly understood that such were the wishes of the master of the house.