- vases and frames, a pervading odour of turpentine,
and a look of rapture upon the young man's face.
"But it is a studio," said June. Somehow she felt greatly impressed by it. "I've never seen one before, but it's just like what one reads about in books."
"Oh, no, a studio is where pictures are painted. Here they are only cleaned and restored."
"One day perhaps you'll paint them."
"Perhaps I will; I don't know." He sighed a little, too shy to confess his dream. "But that day's a long way off."
"It mayn't be, you know."
He had begun already to try, but as yet it was a secret from the world. "Ars est celare artem," he said.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Life is short, art eternal. It is the motto of the old man who teaches me how to clean and renovate these things. He says it keeps him up to his work."
"You go to an art school?"
"I should hardly call it that. But the master wants me to learn as much as I can of the practical side of the trade, so he's having me taught. And the more I can pick up about pictures, the better it will be for the business. You see, the master doesn't pretend to know much about pictures himself. His line is furniture."
"Didn't I say you were clever?" June could not help feeling a little proud of her own perception.
"You wouldn't say that"—the young man's tone was sad—"if you really knew how little I know. But allow me to show you what I bought at Crowdham Market. There it is." He pointed to the old picture on the smaller easel, which now divorced from its frame
