pretty things to you or to tell you the truth?"

"Why, the truth, of course," replied Elisabeth, who considered that the
two things were synonymous--or at any rate ought to be.

"And you won't be angry with me, or think me impertinent?"

"Of course not," answered Elisabeth, who most certainly would; and
Christopher--not having yet learned wisdom--believed her.

"I thought it was a distinctly powerful picture--a distinctly remarkable
picture--and if any one but you had painted it, I should have been
delighted with it; but somehow I felt that it was not quite up to your
mark--that you could do, and will do, better work."

For a second Elisabeth was dumbfounded with amazement and indignation.
How dare this one man dispute the verdict of London? Then she said--

"In what way do you think the work could have been done better?"

"That is just what I can't tell you; I wish I could; but I'm not an
artist, unfortunately. It seems to me that there are other people (not
many, I admit, but still some) who could have painted that picture;
while you are capable of doing work which no one else in the world could
possibly do. Naturally I want to see you do your best, and am not
satisfied when you do anything less."

Elisabeth tossed her head. "You are very hard to please, Mr. Thornley."

"I know I am, where your work is concerned; but that is because I have
formed such a high ideal of your powers. If I admired you less, I should
admire your work more, don't you see?"

But Elisabeth did not see. She possessed the true artist-spirit which
craves for appreciation of its offspring more than for appreciation of
itself--a feeling which perhaps no one but an artist or a mother really
understands. Christopher, being neither, did not understand it in the
least, and erroneously concluded that adoration of the creator absolves
one from the necessity of admiration of the thing created.

"I shall never do a better piece of work than that," Elisabeth retorted,
being imbued with the creative delusion that the latest creation is of
necessity the finest creation. No artist could work at all if he did not
believe that the work he was doing--or had just done--was the best piece
of work he had ever done or ever should do. This is because his work,
however good, always falls short of the ideal which inspired it; and,
while he is yet working, he can not disentangle the ideal from the
reality. He must be at a little distance from his work until he