"Yes; I tell them there may be city advantages, but I think they're much better off where they are."
"Where did you say you were?"
"On the Connecticut shore. You see, having only the one child, Mrs. Smith is very anxious that it should grow up healthy" (absent-minded nods indicative of full attention), "and so little Ronald never comes to the city at all. He plays with the fisherman's child and gets great drafts of fresh air."
"Oh, how perfectly entrancing! You're quite a poet."
"No; I'm a painter."
Now she is really attentive. She thought you were just an ordinary beast, and she finds that you may be a lion. Smith? Perhaps you're Hopkinson Smith.
"Oh, do you paint? How perfectly adorable! What do you paint—landscapes or portraits?"
Again the eye wanders and she inventories a dress, and you say:—
"Oils."
"Do you ever allow visitors come to your studio?"