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Updated: May 5, 2025
He flattered himself that he was as well dressed in painting rig as under any other circumstances; and quite right he was, too. For Oliver Kenwick had no mannish contempt for appearances. He could not have done justice to the ragged shirt and begrimed legs of a model, if he had been wearing such a superannuated coat as Geoffry Daymond elected to paint in.
"Perhaps things have changed since then," Kenwick replied, in a low voice, with so much seriousness and significance that May gave him a quick, amused look, while Pauline experienced an unreasonable resentment. What business had a stranger like Kenwick to be talking to them in riddles?
Well, he's his mother's son, and that is half the battle." "Yes," Pauline admitted; "that is the way I felt too, at first. But now I know him better it is for himself I like him. He is so strong, and steady, and good evening, Mr. Kenwick!" "Ah, good evening! I was sure that unless you had blown away in the course of the day, I should find you in these classic precincts.
Old Pietro brought with him a slender slip of a grandson, a boy of sixteen, Angelo by name, who made up in skill and elasticity for the robustness yet to come. Kenwick was of the party, and in great spirits; but indeed there was not one of them all who was not sensible of that agreeable exhilaration which attends a propitious start. The morning was true Venetian, soft and fair as a dream.
"I will be as evasive as possible," said Kenwick, somewhat nettled; "but it's rather late to impose conditions." "Am I holding the poppies right?" asked May, after what seemed to her a long interval of silence. "I'm afraid they will begin to droop pretty soon." "The poppies are all right," Geoffry assured her. "Does that mean the rest of it isn't?
His wife was mighty happy, and she told our folks and the rest of the women that when Horace got away from his old associates in this town she knew that he would be all right. Poor Myrtle Kenwick, the prettiest girl you ever saw along in the sixties and she was through here not long ago and stayed with my wife and the girls a broken old woman, going back to her kinfolk in Iowa after she left him.
Here, in this isolated position, the two painted together for three successive afternoons, and Kenwick, by dint of a judicious combination of encouragement and criticism, which he, as a practised artist had always at command, succeeded in arousing in the young girl an enthusiasm for the work, and an appreciation of his own mastery of his craft, which could not but be gratifying and stimulating to him.
And when, presently, the sun came out in full force, inducing the four more taciturn strollers to retrace their steps, Kenwick felt that blaze of light to be doubly inopportune. A few minutes later the flotilla was again on its way, awnings spread, and flags flying. A breeze had sprung up, and when they were free of the Burano canals, they found the water delicately ruffled.
George in the Seaweed," he said. "There's a Madonna there, on the angle of the wall, that's worth seeing. When we do go, you will have to guess whom it is like." "Probably Pauline," May ventured. "One keeps seeing her in the Madonnas and saints." "No, it's not your sister," said Kenwick, with unmistakable meaning. "You don't mean me!" May exclaimed. "No mortal artist could make a Madonna of me!"
Why not this afternoon? We can have tea early and get a couple of hours on the lagoon in the pretty light. I'm afraid you have an engagement, haven't you, Geof?" "Oh, I don't mind throwing Kenwick over. He'll keep," and the young man stepped to the other window and flung it open.
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