the words that he had addressed to her were spoken in jest or in earnest.
“I only presumed to touch your drawing,” she said, “because it was in danger.”
“What danger?” he inquired.
Francine pointed to the pond. “If I had not been in time to pick it up, it would have been blown into the water.”
“Do you think it was worth picking up?”
Putting that question, he looked first at the sketch—then at the view which it represented—then back again at the sketch. The corners of his mouth turned upward with a humorous expression of scorn. “Madam Nature,” he said, “I beg your pardon.” With those words, he composedly tore his work of art into small pieces, and scattered them out of the window.
“What a pity!” said Francine.
He joined her on the ground outside the cottage. “Why is it a pity?” he asked.
“Such a nice drawing.”
“It isn’t a nice drawing.”
“You’re not very polite, sir.”
He looked at her—and sighed as if he pitied so young a woman for having a temper so ready to take offense. In his flattest contradictions he always preserved the character of a politely-positive man.
“Put it in plain words, miss,” he replied. “I have offended the predominant sense in your nature—your sense of self-esteem. You don’t like to be told, even indirectly, that you know nothing of Art. In these days, everybody knows everything—and thinks nothing worth knowing after all. But beware how you presume on an appearance of indifference, which is nothing but conceit in disguise. The ruling passion of civilized humanity is, Conceit. You may try the regard of your dearest friend in any other way, and be forgiven. Ruffle the smooth surface of your friend’s self-esteem—and there will be an acknowledged coolness between you which will last for life. Excuse me for giving you the benefit of my trumpery experience. This sort of smart talk is my form of conceit. Can I be of use to you in some
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