him as he watched the girl cross the dusty floor and proceed, without speaking, to lift away the faded cotton coverings.
What was to be revealed by those movements he could not tell. But it impressed him as being a pretty ridiculous way of treasuring canvases of any value or any origin, to leave them unprotected in an old fire trap of a farm-house attic. The whole thing, in fact, was ridiculous. The only element that redeemed it, that vitalized it, to him was the stooping, ardent figure with the strong side light on the creamy white of her throat and chin.
But the girl, as he stood studying her, had turned and looked at him.
"How shall I show them?" she asked in a moderated voice which he first accepted as awe, but later remembered to be based on ordinary caution.
"Just as they come," he told her, as casually as he could, intent on impressing her with that sustained deliberateness which one expects of the critic. "One at a time, if you can manage them. And I'll tell you when to change."
