"It reminds me very speakingly of father," Minna said.
"Oh dear me, yes, indeed!"
"At times I have good luck with such light pencil drawings, but the pastel of Minna, which cost me so much trouble, is really a smudge. I ought not to allow it to hang on the wall."
"Please don't, Mr. Stephensen. How can you say so? That beautiful painting! At that time we had not one other one in colours; at least there was another one with children in a boat, and I honestly thought it was very pretty, but Minna wouldn't allow it to be here, so I had to put it into the bedroom.… Well, later on you were so kind as to send that lovely picture over the sofa.… But Minna's picture, no, you mustn't say that, one can clearly see who it is meant for"
"But only very dimly who it is," Minna said.
"Oh, you really are a naughty child!"
Stephensen laughed.
"There you are, Madam! It's no use for you to be so kind, the picture can't be saved. But one might make a new one, and, for instance, just such a pencil sketch."
"Have you painted at all to-day, Mr. Stephensen?" I asked.
"No, the light was too bad.… I could only soil the canvas over, so that to-morrow, anyhow, I may not look at the white stuff."
"Do all painters use such disparaging expressions about their art?" Minna asked. "It seems that one never hears anything from you all but 'soiling,' 'daubing,' or, at most, 'smearing.'"
"Quite right," Stephensen answered, smiling; "it is a rather ordinary artistic façon de parler; there is a bit of self-criticism in it, and still more affectation and perhaps
