Bartlett.—"Well, try them." Constance draws, and Bartlett regards the operation with gestures and contortions of countenance expressive of mingled tenderness for Constance and extreme suffering from her performance. She turns about, and surprises him with his hands clutched in his shaggy hair.
Constance, with dignity.—"What is the matter, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett, forcing an imbecile smile.—"Nothing, I was just thinking—I should—like to venture to make a remark."
Constance.—"You know I wish you to speak to me about everything."
Bartlett.—"Did you mean that lady to be in the middle distance?"
Constance.—"Yes."
Bartlett.—"Well, there is a slight, a very slight, error in the perspective. She is as tall as Ponkwasset, you see, and could touch the top of it with the point of her parasol."
Constance, dejectedly.—"I see. I can never do it."
Bartlett.—"Oh, yes, you can, Miss Wyatt; you mustn't lose patience with me."