It was almost making the poor old lady act a lie—and, in fact, the chief effect of Martin’s art upon his neighbours was to make them realise the far higher veracity of photographs; which came so much cheaper, too.
But whatever might be thought of the paintings, with the painter himself nobody had any fault to find. Before long, Martin was easily the most popular person in Kiteroa, and quite naturally so. To begin with, he was a pleasure merely to look at, with his tall, muscular figure, all ease and buoyancy, his ready, irresistible smile, and happy, kind blue eyes. Then, in addition to good-nature, good humour, good spirits, and a power of enjoyment that was infectious, he possessed an indefinable charm of temperament, “fluid and attaching,” that coaxed criticism into indulgence and persuaded suspicion to a smile. He was a delightful person; more, he was a delightful person to be with, and that in reality was his chief attraction. Wherever Martin came, a certain sparkle, a peculiarly grateful liveliness, awoke in the company—emanating from him in the first place, certainly, but by no means confined to him. People in his society began to be enchanted with their own, discovering, with a pleasure which in turn naturally helped things on, how bright, how quick, how brilliant they could really be. Martin, in short, was a human effervescent. He was like a spoonful of sherbet, which you have but to slip into a glass of water, and—Presto! how that quiet water does begin to dance! Or, to vary the simile, he was a human sunbeam, not only bringing its own brightness with it, but evoking also a shining answer out of shady places thought
