"Of course not," answered Elisabeth, who most certainly would; and Christopher--not having yet learned wisdom--believed her. "I thought it was a distinctly powerful picture--a distinctly remarkable picture--and if any one but you had painted it, I should have been delighted with it; but somehow I felt that it was not quite up to your mark--that you could do, and will do, better work." For a second Elisabeth was dumbfounded with amazement and indignation. How dare this one man dispute the verdict of London? Then she said-- "In what way do you think the work could have been done better?" "That is just what I can't tell you; I wish I could; but I'm not an artist, unfortunately. It seems to me that there are other people (not many, I admit, but still some) who could have painted that picture; while you are capable of doing work which no one else in the world could possibly do. Naturally I want to see you do your best, and am not satisfied when you do anything less." Elisabeth tossed her head. "You are very hard to please, Mr. Thornley." "I know I am, where your work is concerned; but that is because I have formed such a high ideal of your powers. If I admired you less, I should admire your work more, don't you see?" But Elisabeth did not see. She possessed the true artist-spirit which craves for appreciation of its offspring more than for appreciation of itself--a feeling which perhaps no one but an artist or a mother really understands. Christopher, being neither, did not understand it in the least, and erroneously concluded that adoration of the creator absolves one from the necessity of admiration of the thing created. "I shall never do a better piece of work than that," Elisabeth retorted, being imbued with the creative delusion that the latest creation is of necessity the finest creation. No artist could work at all if he did not believe that the work he was doing--or had just done--was the best piece of work he had ever done or ever should do. This is because his work, however good, always falls short of the ideal which inspired it; and, while he is yet working, he can not disentangle the ideal from the reality. He must be at a little distance from his work until he can do this properly; and Elisabeth was as yet under the influence of that creative glamour which made her see her latest picture as it should be rather than as it was. "Oh, yes, you will; you will fulfil my ideal of you yet. I cherish no doubts on that score." "I can't think what you see wrong in my picture," said Elisabeth somewhat pettishly. "I don't see anything wrong in it. Good gracious! I must have expressed myself badly if I conveyed such an impression to you as that, and you would indeed be justified in writing me down an ass. I think it is a wonderfully clever picture--so clever that nobody but you could ever paint a cleverer one." "Well, I certainly couldn't. You must have formed an exaggerated estimate of my artistic powers."