and he seemed indisposed
for conversation.

"I have the _permesso_," he said, leading at once to the door of the
gallery.

They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks. In
the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large picture.
They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked if it was
well done.

"What do you think yourself?" asked Mallard.

"It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it is
neither one nor the other."

He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized.

"I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust of
myself. I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterly
worthless."

"As likely as not--no; at least, I think not. But of course your eye is
untrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon. You can judge an
original picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not be wholly
misleading. You can't judge a copy technically, but I think you have
more than average observation. How would you like to spend your life
like this copyist?"

"I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right."

"You would?"

"I should be able to _do_ something--something definite and tolerably
good."

"Why, so you can already; one thing in particular."

"What is that?"

"Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will nor
can. Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it."

She examined the picture for a minute or two. Then, without moving her
eyes, she murmured:

"I can say nothing that is worth saying."

"Never mind. Say what you think, or what you feel."

"Why should you wish me to talk commonplace?"

"That is precisely what I don't wish you to talk. You know what is
commonplace, and therefore you can avoid it. Never mind his school or
his date. What did the man want to express here, and how far do you
think he has succeeded? That's the main thing; I wish a few critics
would understand it."

Miriam obeyed him, and said what she had to say diffidently, but in
clear terms. Mallard was silent when she ceased, and she looked up at
him. He rewarded her with a smile, and one or two nods--as his manner
was.

"I have not made myself ridiculous?"

"I think not."

They had walked on a little, when Mallard said to her unexpectedly:

"Please to bear in mind that I make no claim to infallibility. I am a
painter of landscape; out of my own sphere, I become an amate