Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public and a very deep regard for the
maiden, did deliberately propose, in order to secure more of these coveted
cuttings, that he should paint a picture which Maisie should sign.
"That's childish," said Maisie, "and I didn't think it of you. It must be my
work. Mine,--mine,--mine!"
"Go and design decorative medallions for rich brewers" houses. You are
thoroughly good at that." Dick was sick and savage.
"Better things than medallions, Dick," was the answer, in tones that recalled a
gray-eyed atom's fearless speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick would have abased
himself utterly, but that other girl trailed in.
Next Sunday he laid at Maisie's feet small gifts of pencils that could almost
draw of themselves and colours in whose permanence he believed, and he was
ostentatiously attentive to the work in hand. It demanded, among other things,
an exposition of the faith that was in him.
Torpenhow's hair would have stood on end had he heard the fluency with which
Dick preached his own gospel of Art.
A month before, Dick would have been equally astonished; but it was Maisie's
will and pleasure, and he dragged his words together to make plain to her
comprehension all that had been hidden to himself of the whys and wherefores of
work.
Pages:
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931