Constance.—"But I didn't mean it for that!"
Bartlett.—"Well, well; but the lady's figure, that was good"—
Constance.—"You turned her into a clump of birches."
Bartlett.—"True. A mere exigency of the perspective. The hay-stacks"—
Constance.—"You've just sunk them into the lake!"
Bartlett.—"Well, well. Perhaps I may have helped in the execution of the picture, a little. But my dear Miss Wyatt, the drawing is nothing; it's the design is what makes the picture, and that's entirely yours; the ideas were all yours. Come! Try your hand now at the shore line of the lake, just here."
Constance.—"I'm afraid I'm a little tired. My hands are cold."
Bartlett.—"Oh, I'm sorry!" He takes one of them and places it between either of his. "That shows you've been working too hard. I can't allow that. All the art in the world isn't worth—I mustn't forget that you have not been well; and I want these little lessons to be a pastime and not a burden to you. The picture's sufficiently advanced now"—he mechanically puts her hand under his left arm, and keeps his own right hand upon it, while he takes his station with her in front of the easel—"to warrant us in trying a little colour to-morrow. You'll be very much more interested in colour. It is refreshing to get at the brushes after you've tired yourself out with the black and white. You've got a very pretty outfit, there, Miss Wyatt." He indicates her colours on the little table.
Constance.—"I didn't mean to refuse the offer of your paints, but I thought it would be better to have the colours perfectly fresh, you know."
Bartlett.—"Quite right. Quite right. Now you see— Rest on me, Miss Wyatt, or I shall be afraid of fatiguing you by standing; and I'd like to point out a few things for you to begin on here to-morrow."