Christopher remembered well enough; but he was not going to tell this crushing fine lady how well he remembered. If he had not exposed his heart for Elisabeth to peck at in the old days, he certainly was not going to expose it now; then she would only have been scientifically interested--now she would probably be disdainfully amused.
"I suppose you saw my picture in this year's Academy," Elisabeth added.
"Saw it? I should think I did. I went up to town on purpose to see it, as I always do when you have pictures on view at any of the shows."
Christopher was silent for a moment; then he said--
"Do you want me to say pretty things to you or to tell you the truth?"
"Why, the truth, of course," replied Elisabeth, who considered that the two things were synonymous--or at any rate ought to be.
"And you won't be angry with me, or think me impertinent?"
"Of course not," answered Elisabeth, who most certainly would; and Christopher--not having yet learned wisdom--believed her.
"I thought it was a distinctly powerful picture--a distinctly remarkable picture--and if any one but you had painted it, I should have been delighted with it; but somehow I felt that it was not quite up to your mark--that you could do, and will do, better work."
For a second Elisabeth was dumbfounded with amazement and indignation. How dare this one man dispute the verdict of London? Then she said--
"In what way do you think the work could have been done better?"
"That is just what I can't tell you; I wish I could; but I'm not an artist, unfortunately. It seems to me that there are other people (not many, I admit, but still some) who could have painted that picture; while you are capable of doing work which no one else in the world could possibly do. Naturally I want to see you do your best, and am not satisfied when you do anything less."
Elisabeth tossed her head. "You are very hard to please, Mr. Thornley."
"I know I am, where your work is concerned; but that is because I have formed such a high ideal of your powers. If I admired you less, I should admire your work more, don't you see?"
But Elisabeth did not see. She possessed the true artist-spirit which craves for appreciation of its offspring more than for appreciation of itself--a feeling which perhaps no one but an artist or a mother really understands. Christopher, being neither, did not understand it in the least, and erroneously concluded that adoration of the creator absolves one from the necessity of admiration of the thing created.