"He is a patron of the arts," I explained. "His father provided the British army with shoe-leather for some years, and the son dispenses the proceeds from a castle at Cookham. This trifle has been commissioned for the banquet-hall."
"You must feel very proud," she observed gravely. "May I look at it more closely?"
I handed her the canvas, and, propping it up in her punt, she proceeded to criticize it with an intelligence and knowledge that considerably surprised me.
"I have my doubts as to your painting so badly," I said, with some suspicion.
She shook her head.
"My father is an artist," she answered. "I have inherited his taste without his abilities."
"Has he a taste for cheap claret?" I inquired, holding up the bottle.
"For about half a glass, I think."
I poured it out, and filled my own.
"To Mr. Rosenthal," she said gaily.