She paused a moment. But now, she said,artists had come here. There indeed, only a fewpaces 0H, stood one of them, in Panama hat andyellow boots, seriously, softly, absorbedly, for allthat he was watched by ten little boys, with an airof profound contentment on his round red face,gazing, and then, when he had gazed, dipping;imbuing the tip of his brush in some soft moundof green or pink. Since Mr. Paunceforte had beenthere, three years before, all the pictures were likethat she said, green and grey, with lemon-colouredsailing—boats, and pink women on the beach.

But her grandmother’s friends, she said,glancing discreetly as they passed, took thegreatest pains; first they mixed their own colours,and then they ground them, and then they putdamp cloths on them to keep them moist.

So Mr. Tansley supposed she meant him to seethat that man’s picture was skimpy, was that whatone said? The colours weren’t solid? Was thatwhat one said? Under the influence of that extraordinary emotion which had been growing allthe walk, had begun in the garden when he hadwanted to take her bag, had increased in the townwhen he had wanted to tell her everything abouthimself he was coming to see himself and everything he had ever known gone crooked a little.It was awfully strange.2 6