As the work went on, however, his aunt's song changed imperceptibly from
allegretto to adagio, and from the major mode to the minor.
The change first appeared as she studied his charcoal outline. "Well,"
she observed, "I think you might have put Bertie somewhere near the
middle of the picture, instead of away off to the left, like that."
"They put them in the middle sometimes--yes," admitted Truesdale,
cheerily waving his aunt back. "I'm leaving the other side for you," he
added, with a genial impudence.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" And she half believed it true.
On the day following she was distinctly mournful. "Do you mean to tell me
that you can ever work over that mass of red and blue and yellow freckles
into anything resembling Bertie's complexion?--such a beautiful one,
too!" Bertie blushed. "There! look at it now!" cried his aunt, with a
mounting enthusiasm; and Bertie blushed still more violently. Truesdale
gave her a brief glance, which he at once transferred to his palette.
This was the first time in his life that he had ever lowered his eyes
from a woman's face, merely because there happened to be a blush upon it.
"Work it over?" he presently inquired, as he looked up to his aunt across
his shoulder. "I never work anything over."
"Is it going to stay that way?" demanded his aunt, peremptorily. Bertie's
own face was overcast, with an expression of plaintive distrust.
"Of course it is. I work in the primary colors.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233