"
The painter stepped back a pace or two and examined his own handicraft,
with his head on one side, in a very critical attitude. "I don't
know that I'm quite satisfied after all with the colour-scheme,"
he said, glancing askance at Elma. "I fancy it's, perhaps, just a
trifle too green. It looks all right, of course, out here in the
open; but the question is, when it's hung in the Academy, surrounded
by warm reds, and purples, and blues, won't it look by comparison
much too cabbagey and too grassy?"
Elma drew a deep breath.
"Oh, Mr. Waring," she cried, in a deprecating tone, holding her
breath for awe.
It pained her that anybody--even Cyril himself--should speak so
lightly about so beautiful a picture.
"Then you like it?" Cyril asked, turning round to her full face
and fronting her as she stood there, all beautiful blushes through
her creamy white skin.
"Like it? I love it," Elma answered enthusiastically. "Apart from
its being yours, I think it simply beautiful."
"And you like ME, too, then?" the painter asked, once more, making
a sudden dash at the question that was nearest to both their hearts,
after all, that moment. He was going away to-morrow, and this was
a last opportunity.
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