She showed him all the photographs—even the dim ones that needed to be looked at very closely, when, with time and patience, a horse, perhaps several horses, mostly jumping or galloping, and riders would slowly disentangle themselves from the surrounding gloom. "I confess that our climate isn’t an ideal one for taking photographs!" she laughed. "Most of those were taken in the rain or a mist." She rose. "I want to show you something else." She fetched a little oil painting of Acushla. "By Jove!" he said, and studied it in silence. "Mr. O’Neil—my master—says it’s the best thing I’ve ever done." "It’s splendid! She’s a beauty! Just look at her legs—and the colour. What a glorious little beast she is! I don’t know when I’ve seen a more beautiful head and shape." "Mr. O’Neil came upon me just when I’d done that, and he burst out, ’Good! Good! Good!’ He doesn’t believe in praise, you know, and directly he’d said that he pulled himself up. ’But might be better!’ he said, and he glared into my face, and groaned out: ’I believe you’re pleased with it! I wash my hands of you! You’ll never be a painter! Go away! You should be weeping that you can’t do better!’ It took all my eloquence to convince him that I didn’t think it was good, only better work than I had been doing. But I made him laugh, by representing how pleased he’d be if he always came upon me sitting weeping into my pinny, and then he cheered up, and slanged my poor little painting with tremendous energy!" "Beast!" "He’s a dear old man, but he has a theory that complacency is the curse of art. He declares that talent is choked by it, and so never rises. You should always be dissatisfied with your work—always feel you _must_ do better, or die in the attempt. Now, if I were to listen to your praise, it would do me incalculable harm, according to him." He smiled whimsically. "I don’t think even he’d mind my praise!" "I don’t agree with him," she pursued thoughtfully, "unless, of course, a person is naturally conceited and complacent, and then I don’t think it matters one way or the other; the person will remain complacent anyway. But I think a little praise cheers one up! I’m just delighted you think that good!" "It’s more than good," earnestly. "Oh, if he could hear you! And me!" She stooped to pick up from the floor a sheet of foreign note-paper scrawled over with large uneven writing. "Sheila Pat," she said, "to-morrow’s mail day. We write an awful lot. But we can’t get any letters from them yet." She took the photographs from him and put them away in the drawer. "Thank you," he said quietly. She turned to him with a little laugh, and held out her hand. "I’ve been awfully mean—had mean thoughts about you—been rude to you." Her words tumbled out in a soft little jumble. "I’m sorry." He grasped her hand. "Not you—I say—" he stammered.