"George," I said, "was responsible for the song, and Solomon for the
sentiments. I am innocent."
She accepted both the bread-and-butter and the apology.
"You are an artist," she said, "to say nothing of being a
knight-errant. One cannot have all the talents."
"When I was a small boy," I remarked, "I remember I had a nurse who
used to check my incipient tendency to sarcasm by saying warningly:
'Hush, Master Jack! No one will love you if you talk like that.'"
"No, no!" she cried, with a protesting little laugh. "I really meant
it for a compliment. I paint very badly myself, but I know good work
when I see it. Yours is delightful."
"I only hope the excellent Mr. Rosenthal will share your opinion," I
said.
She puckered her forehead in a charming expression of mock
bewilderment.
"And who is Mr. Rosenthal? He sounds very rich."
"He is a patron of the arts," I explained. "His father provided the
British army with shoe-leather for some years, and the son dispenses
the proceeds from a castle at Cookham. This trifle has been
commissioned for the banquet-hall."
"You must feel very proud," she observed gravely. "May I look at it
more closely?"
I handed her the canvas, and, propping it up in her punt, she
proceeded to criticize it with an intelligence and knowledge that
considerably surprised me.
"I have my doubts as to your painting so badly," I said, with some
suspicion.
She shook her head.
"My father is an artist," she answered. "I have inherited his taste
without his abilities."
"Has he a taste for cheap claret?" I inquired, holding up the bottle.
"For about half a glass, I think."