“It is a great pleasure to me to have Joan’s company; we have been friends for a great many years, ever since we were little schoolgirls.”
“And you helped her with her sums after hours,” said Horace, twisting the end of his moustache. “I have heard a great deal about you and your doings, Miss Clemon, but seriously, I should be glad to talk to you about my cousin, if you will let me.”
“Please do; she has been so looking forward to your coming; will you be able to suggest any line for her to take up? She doesn’t much like teaching; she was not very happy at home, and (with a slight hesitation) her grandfather makes her no allowance while she is here.”
“Poor girl!” exclaimed Mr. Meade, “I expected how it would be; he is a regular old miser. As for Joan, with all her talent, she’s had no proper teaching herself, and hasn’t an idea what real work means. What has she been doing lately?”
Embrance, conscious that Joan had been spending the last fortnight in making herself a charming terra-cotta walking dress, looked towards the window, and said that there had been so many fogs, it was bad weather for artists. Mr. Meade nodded, then marched up to the easel, and examined the drawing—a study of roses, white and pink—that Joan had begun a month ago; but even before the roses (which had cost as much as a week’s rent) withered, she had got tired of the drawing, and had put it on one side for a copy of a landscape, intended for the good of her pupil, and also left unfinished.
For some minutes he stood there in silence, took the drawings nearer to the light, and carefully replaced them on the easel.
“Well?” asked Embrance, anxiously.
“What do you think of them?”
“I am not a judge; I know so little about it.”
“Very likely, but look here” (she came closer to the easel), “you are accustomed to observe. Do you see the grouping of the roses is pretty enough, but there, look, that is quite out of drawing, and the stalk is an absurdity.”