“Never mind, Mother,” he said brusquely, “it will be the best ever. Let me splash my face a bit. Run off, Paul, now. After lunch we will have a walk.”
“Oh, splendid! To the camp, to see the Indians?” shouted the boy. “I adore Indians. What——”
“Off you go, boy, and let me get through with my lunch. Vamoose! Clear out! Do you hear?” he shouted at the boy with mock fierceness.
Thank God, the first meeting was safely over. He had carried it off successfully. His spirits rose with a bound. He must get them thinking of something else. Preoccupation was the idea. His new picture! He would put some hard hours upon that. His wife would be interested and pleased. She always was when he really worked at his easel, and more especially when he carried the thing through to completion. He would put the finishing touches to this picture. The scene began to come back to him. He brought his sketch book to the lunch table with him.
“There is the making of a great picture, Marion,” he cried, opening out the book for her.
Eagerly she came to his side, and stood with her hand on his shoulder.
“Show me, dear,” she said. Her tenderness was like a knife in him.
“See that line of mountains in the far distance, wonderful blue at the sky line, and down the sides in the hollows and at the base purple. My dear! Such purple—shot through with rose tints!” He grew enthusiastic.
“There, that will do, Hugh!” she said, taking away his sketch book from him and patting his head as if he were a little boy. “Lunch just now, and then you will get at your picture right after. You are starved. Your lunch is spoiled, I fear, but it is the very best Jinny could do.”
All through lunch he talked eagerly, excitedly, about his picture. His art work always excited him, and when a scene really gripped his imagination he was mad to be at it. He hurried through his meal, seized his sketch book, and in a minute was busy with his palette. An hour later his wife came in to him and, sitting down in an easy chair, watched him at his work. Back and forward, with quick step and with eager, clever fingers, he touched and re-touched, spreading upon the canvas the scene of the morning, with never a pause and never an erasure. He had rarely worked so surely, rarely with such mastery in his brush.