“Why can't you finish it here? Haven't you got it here?”
“Wouldn't the Adour do? The river at Shoreham?”
“No; but the Thames might. My picture is really more English than French. There were a lot of willow trees there, and my picture represents a girl lying in a hammock, foot hanging over, showing such a pretty piece of black stocking. There are two men there, they are both swinging the hammock, but while one is looking at her ankle the other only sees her face.”
“What are you laughing at?” he asked, feeling a little nettled.
“Don't you think people will think it rather improper?”
“Not at all. Why should they? The idea I wish to convey is that one man loves her truly for herself alone, the other only loves her because she is a pretty girl. I have composed some triolets for the picture, which will be printed in the catalogue--
“In a hammock I swing, My feet hanging over; 'Neath Love's bright wing, In a hammock I swing, Loves come and they bring A truth to discover, In a hammock I swing, My feet hanging over.
“That is the first stanza. There are six, and they tell the story of the picture. I will copy them into your album, if you like.”
“Will you? That will be so nice, if you will. The only thing is, I haven't an album.”
“Haven't you? I'll get you one. I'll send you one from London.”
Sally asked him to explain the triolets, and very loyally she strove to understand.
“Ah, I see a thing when I am told, but I never can understand poetry or pictures until they are explained to me.”
Mollified, Frank thought of going upstairs to fetch the copy book in which he wrote such things, but speaking out of an unperceived association of ideas, he said: “What a clever girl your sister is. I had once a long talk with her about pictures and poetry, and I was surprised to find how well she talked. She understands everything.”
“Maggie is a clever girl; I know she is far cleverer than I am; but if you knew her as well as I do, you would find she did not understand all you think she understands.”
“Maggie's cleverness lies in being able to pretend she understands what she knows nothing about; I have often caught her out.”
“Really; but how do you get on together now?”
“Pretty well! I don't think there is much love lost on either side. I don't know why--I never could understand Maggie. You have no idea of the reports she spreads about me all over the place--the stories she tells the Grahams, the Prestons, the Wells. She told Mrs. Wells that I fell in love with every young man that came to Southwick. She said awful things about me. As for that story about telling cook to put father's dinner back, I don't think I ever shall hear the last of it. What made father so angry was because he thought it was to talk to Jimmy in the slonk.”
