"Yes, it does," said William, touching it here and there with loverly fingers. "If I can but manage to get the top off without hurting the fabric, I'm sure it'll be a non-such."
June fervently said that she hoped it would be.
"There's the cloud I spoke to you about the other day."
"Why, yes," said June, screwing up her eyes, in unconscious imitation of Foxy Face. "I see it now. And it's very beautiful indeed."
"And the touch of sunlight in it. I hope you notice that!" As William spoke, it almost seemed to June that she could see the reflection of the sunlight in the eyes of this enthusiast.
"Yes, I do," said June stoutly.
"A real painter has done that!" The young man's voice took that dying fall she had learnt already to listen for. "This is a lovely thing, Miss June!" Pure cadence touched her heart with fire. "Do you know, I am beginning to think this little picture is the most perfect thing I have ever seen?"
"Very valuable, I dare say," said June, bringing him to earth.
"I only know it's good."
"But surely if it's good it's valuable? What do you think it might be worth?"
"Miss June,"—the queer little tremble in his voice sounded divine—"don't let us think of it as money."
But at those hushed words, at the far-off look in the deep eyes, she felt once more a touch of pain.
"Uncle Si would call that sentiment. He believes that money is the most important thing there is; he believes it is the only thing that matters."
