She must know it,
though, for she must have had training. I wonder where and how."
He called Miss Arden and showed her the sketches.
"Dear me, but they're clever," she said. "They look like a child's
work--and yet they aren't."
"I should say not," he declared very positively. "That sort of thing is
no child's work. That's what painters do when they're recording an
impression, and I've often looked in more wonder at such sketchy
outlines than at the finished product. To know how to get that
impression on paper so that it's unmistakable--I tell you that's
training and nothing else. I don't know enough about it to say it's
genius, too, yet I've had an artist friend tell me it cost him more to
learn to take the right sort of notes than to enlarge upon those notes
afterward."
When he wrote to Anne next morning--he was not venturing to ask more of
her than one exchange a day--he told her what he thought about those
sketches:
I've had that sheet pinned up at the foot of my bed ever since
it came, and I'm not yet tired of looking at it. You should
have seen Franz's face when I showed it to him. "Ze arteeste!"
he exclaimed, and laughed, and made eloquent gestures, by
means of which I judged he was trying to express you. He
looked as if he were trying to impress me with his own hair,
his eyes, his cheeks, his hands; but I knew well enough he
meant you. I gathered that he had been not ill pleased with
his visit to you, for he proposes another; in fact, I think he
would enjoy playing for you every day if you should care to
hear him so often.
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