Constance.—"It's you who won't be able to keep your patience with my stupidity."
Bartlett.—"That's not the name for it. I shall think more of your failures than of anybody's successes—that is—I mean—if you don't let this thing be a pain instead of a pleasure to you. Remember, I hoped it would amuse you."
Constance.—"Oh, yes. You have been only too kind, in that and everything."
Bartlett.—"Well, now, let us begin again. This lady is very well as a lady; you understand the figure better than perspective; but she's out of place here, a little; and a flower out of place, you know, is a weed. Suppose we"—he takes up the charcoal, and makes a few dashes at the canvas—"treat her as a clump of tall birch-trees,—that clump over there in the edge of the meadow; that will bring her into the foreground, and entitle her to be three inches high; we can't really allow her more, even as a clump of birches. Eh?"
Constance.—"Oh, yes; that's better, decidedly." Smiling: "Being under instruction, this way, makes me think of my school-days."
Bartlett, impressively.—"I hope they were happy days."
Constance.—"Oh, the happiest of my life."
Bartlett.—"I am so glad." Constance stares at him in surprise, but finally says nothing. "I mean since this is like them."
Constance, pensively.—"Yes, it's pleasant to go back to that time." With more animation: "Papa, I wonder if you remember Madame Le May, who used to teach me French when you came home after the war?"
General Wyatt, behind his newspaper.—"Eh? What? What's that? Some difficulty in the drawing? You must both have patience,—patience"—