“Why, Gracie, I thought it did not interest you much.”
“We would take an interest if you would only let us.”
“But, you see, I paint such queer pictures. I don't think they are your style. And then pictures are not portable like books. If I wrote poetry, you could be deluged with presentation copies; but even we ourselves lose all the result of our work when the picture is sold.”
“Of course, but you might write and talk more. And with regard to the 'queer' pictures, don't you think, if you made us your confidantes, the pictures might be a little less—'queer'? You see, Clytie, you are young, and it is your nature to run into extremes. If you were just a little bit restrained by older folks, would you not get what you are so fond of talking about—'truth'—in your work?”
Clytie was somewhat puzzled at Mrs. Blather's conciliatory tone. Was this an effort towards a better understanding, or was it a disguised lecture? She finished her hasty toilet and went and stood by the fire near her sister, her foot on the fender.
“Thank you very much, Gracie,” she said, “but would you always understand? Perhaps,” she added, smiling, after a pause, “you would want to restrain too much—and where would the picture be?”
“Well, why not try? What is the picture to be about that you are working at now?”
The blood rushed to Clytie's cheeks, which, bent down, caught the added glow of the fire—a contrast, with her rich colour, to the clear, waxen, negative face of her sister. She broke suddenly into a nervous laugh.
“There! Even from the beginning I couldn't discuss it with you, Gracie. It is only a girl's face—I can't tell you anything more about it.”
“Well, that's what I complain of,” said Mrs. Blather with growing acidity. “You keep your own sisters in ignorance of your life, and confide everything to this Mr. Kent, who is nothing to you.”