Constance.—"I'm afraid I can't get by this point alone."
Bartlett.—"Yes? Let's see it." He eagerly crosses the room, takes his stand behind her, and throws up his hands in despair. Constance indicates her difficulties.
Constance.—"The question is how to get in some idea of those slopes of the mountain. These things seem to crowd everything out."
Bartlett, hopelessly regarding the work.—"I see. You have been composing a little,—idealising. Well, I don't object to that. Though perhaps it had better come later. This long stretch of rocky cliff"—
Constance.—"Rocky cliff?"
Bartlett.—"Isn't in nature, but it might have a good effect if properly utilised"—
Constance.—"But it isn't rocky cliff, Mr. Bartlett. It's"—
Bartlett, looking a second time, and more closely.—"Why, of course! It's that stretch of broken woodland at the foot of the mountain. Very good; very good indeed; very boldly treated. Still, I should say"—
Constance, in desperation.—"Oh, Mr. Bartlett, it isn't rocks, and it isn't woods; it's—hay-stacks!"