“Why, Mr. Blauvelt, I’m not an art critic.”

“Yes, you are,—­one of the class I paint for.  Our best critics are our patrons, cultivated people.”

“I should never think of patronizing you.”

“Perhaps you might entertain the thought of encouraging me a little, if you felt that I was worth it.”

“Now, Mr. Blauvelt, notwithstanding the rural surroundings, you must remember that I was bred in the city.  I know the sovereign contempt that you artists have for the opinions of the people.  When it comes to art, I’m only people.”

“No such generalization will answer in your case.  You have as distinct an individuality as any flower blooming on this hillside.”

“There are flowers and flowers.  Some are quite common.”

“None are commonplace to me, for there is a genuine bit of nature in every one.  Still you are right:  I was conscious of the fragrance from this eglantine-bush here, until you came.”

“Oh, then let me go at once.”

“I beg that you will not.  You are the eglantine in human form, and often quite as briery.”

“Then you should prefer the bush there, which gives you its beauty and fragrance without a scratch.  But truly your comparison is too far-fetched, even for an artist or a poet, for I suppose they are near of kin.  To sensible, matter-of-fact girls, nothing is more absurd than your idealization of us.  See how quickly and honestly I can disenchant you.  In the presence of both nature and art I am conscious that it is nearly lunch-time.  You are far from your boarding-place, so come and take your luck with us.  Mamma will be glad to see you, and after lunch I may be a more amiable critic.”

“As a critic, I do not wish you to be amiable, but honest severity itself.  That you stumbled upon me accidentally in your present mood is my good fortune.  Tell me the faults in my picture in the plainest English, and I will gratefully accept your invitation; for the hospitality at your cottage is so genial that bread and cheese would be a banquet.  I have a strong fancy for seeing my work through your eyes, and so much faith in you that I know you will tell me what you think, since I ask you to do so.”

“Why have you faith in me?” she asked, with a quick, searching glance.

“I belong somewhat to the impressionist school, and my impression of you leads to my words.”

“If you compel me to be honest, I must say I’m not capable of criticising your picture.  I know little of art, and nothing of its technique.”

“Eyes like yours should be able to see a great deal, and, as I said, I am possessed by the wish to know just what they do see.  There is the scene I was sketching, and here the canvas.  Please, Miss Marian.”