“Which, mother?”
“That queer, splodgy picture. I don’t understand the drawing. Now, if you look at one of your father’s pictures, the butcher’s shop, for instance——”
Eve smiled, almost tenderly.
“That is not a picture, mother. I mean, mine. It is just a whim.”
“My dear, how can you paint a whim?”
Eve glanced at Canterton and saw that he was absorbed in studying the last picture she had turned up from the portfolio. His eyes looked more deeply set and more intent, and he sat absolutely motionless, his head bowed slightly.
“That is the best classic thing I managed to do.”
He looked at her, nodded, and turned his eyes again to the picture.
“But even there——”
“There is a film of mystery?”