What he could comprehend and appreciate, however, was Mrs. Joyce's attitude towards her husband's masterpieces. She was wholly and pathetically reverent. It was the sublime, unshaken faith and approval that marriage sometimes wins for a man.
“I am so sorry the light isn't any better. Mr. Oakley must come in in the afternoon,” she said, anxiously.
“I suppose you have seen some of the best examples of the modern painters,” said Joyce, with a tinge of wistful envy in his tones. “You know I never have. I haven't been fifty miles from Antioch in my life.”
Oakley was ashamed to admit that the modern painters were the least of his cares, so he said nothing.
“That's just like Mr. Joyce. He is always doubting his ability, and every one says he gets wonderful likenesses.”
“I guess,” said Oakley, awkwardly, inspired by a feeling of large humanity, “I guess you'll have to be my guest when I go East this fall. You know I can always manage transportation,” he added, hastily.
“Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Mrs. Joyce, in an ecstasy of happiness at the mere thought. “Could you?”
Joyce, with a rather unsteady hand, placed the lamp on the centre-table and gazed at his new friend with a gratitude that went beyond words.
Oakley recognized that in a small way he was committed as a patron of the arts, but he determined to improve upon his original offer, and send Mrs. Joyce with her husband. She would enter into the spirit of his pleasure as no one else could.
“Can't I see more of your work?” he asked, anxious to avoid any expression of gratitude.