Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was anything but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was doing his best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess I was not altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie’s behaving so childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, saying, with a little choke in her voice-- “I see it’s no use trying. I won’t intrude any more into things I am incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me how presumptuous I have been.” The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only spring after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow as she left the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face again towards me, it expressed even a degree of consternation. “I fear,” he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at variance with the shadow upon his countenance, “I fear I have been rude to Miss Walton, but nothing was farther--” “You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and you were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were very kind to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the apology for my daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she recovers from the disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way of her favourite pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only too ready to lose heart, and she paid too little attention to your approbation and too much--in proportion, I mean--to your--criticism. She felt discouraged and lost her temper, but more with herself and her poor attempts, I venture to assure you, than with your remarks upon them. She is too much given to despising her own efforts.” “But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard to those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise.” “I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion can be of no consequence.” “Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs is greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would have grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism is sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they would have opened of themselves. And time,” he added, with a half sigh and with an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my conscience, “is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon.” “No sooner than it ought to be,” I rejoined.