“I don’t think I understand clever pictures. My husband could paint a row of houses, and there they were.”
“Yes, that is a distinct gift. Some of us see more, others less.”
“Do you think that if Eve perseveres she will paint as well as her father?”
Canterton remained perfectly grave.
“She sees things in a different way, and it is a very wonderful way.”
“I am so glad you think so. Eve, dear, is it not nice to hear Mr. Canterton say that?”
Mrs. Carfax chattered on till Eve grew restless, and Canterton, who felt her restlessness, rose to go. He had come to be personal, so far as Eve’s pictures were concerned, but he had been compelled to be impersonal for the sake of the old lady, whose happy vacuity emptied the room of all ideas.
“It was so good of you to come, Mr. Canterton.”
“I assure you I have enjoyed it.”
“I do wish we could persuade Mrs. Canterton to spend an evening with us. But then, of course, she is such a busy, clever woman, and we are such quiet, stay-at-home people. And I have to go to bed at ten. My doctor is such a tyrant.”