Constance.—"That's true, papa,—some of them." She turns gaily from her father, and looks up at Bartlett, who has smilingly listened. She gives a start, and suppresses a cry; she passes her hand quickly over her eyes, and then staying herself a moment with one hand on the back of a chair resumes with forced calm: "Shall we begin, now—ah—Mr.—Bartlett?" An awkward silence ensues, in which Bartlett remains frowning, and the General impatiently flings open a newspaper. Then Bartlett's frown relaxes into a compassionate response to her appealing look.
Bartlett.—"Yes, I'm quite ready. But it's you who are to begin, Miss Wyatt. I am to assume the safe and eligible position of art critic. I wish I had some of those fellows who write about my pictures before an easel; I'd stand their unpleasant company a while for the sake of taking the conceit out of them. Not but what my pictures are bad enough,—as bad as any critic says, for that matter. Well, Miss Wyatt; here is the charcoal, and yonder out-doors is the mountain."
Constance.—"Excuse me a moment. Papa, will our talking disturb you?" To Bartlett: "I suppose we will have to talk a little?"
Bartlett.—"A little."
General Wyatt, from behind his paper.—"It won't disturb me if you don't talk to me."
Constance.—"We'll try not." To Bartlett: "Well?"
Bartlett, as Constance places herself before the canvas, and receiving the charcoal from his fingers, glances out at Ponkwasset.—"May I ask why you chose such a capacious canvas?"
Constance, in meek surprise.—"Why, the mountain being a large object"—
Bartlett.—"A large canvas was necessary, I see. There's reason in that. But were you going to do it life size?"