"I've just been interviewing Tommy on the subject of the pictures," says Mr. Monkton. "So far as I can make out he disapproves of DorÉ." "Oh! Tommy! and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible," says his mother. "I did like them," says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wanted to know about them, but nobody would tell me—and——" "Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you," says Joyce, reproachfully. "You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, where the velvet seats were. They," looking at his father and raising his voice to an indignant note, "wouldn't let me run round on the top of them!" "Good heavens!" says Mr. Monkton. "Can that be true? Truly this country is going to the dogs." "Where do the dogs live?" asks Tommy, "What dogs? Why does the country want to go to them?" "It doesn't want to go," explains his father. "But it will have to go, and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvet seats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story; so that unnatural aunt of yours wouldn't tell you about the pictures, eh?" "She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, a little while. She told me about the great large one at the end, 'Christ and the Historian,' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, and——" "She herself must be a most successful one," says Mr. Monkton, sotto voce. "And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that," says Tommy. "'Twas frightful! Everybody was as large as that," stretching out his arms and puffing out his cheeks, "and the babies were all so fat and so horrid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so I didn't know any more." "I think you forget," says Joyce. "There was that picture with lions in it. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you." "Oh, that one!" says Tommy, as if dimly remembering, "the circus one! The one with the round house. I didn't like that either." "It is rather ghastly for a child," says his mother. "That's not the one with the gas," puts in Tommy. "The one with the gas is just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice." "But why didn't you like the other?" asks his father. "I think it one of the best there." "Well, I don't," says Tommy, evidently grieved at having to differ from his father; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to the truth through thick and thin. "No?" "'Tis unfair," says Tommy. "That has been allowed for centuries," says his father. "Then why don't they change it?" "Change what?" asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little puzzled. "How can one change now the detestable cruelties—or the abominable habits of the dark ages?" "But why were they dark?" asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then." "I didn't mean that, I——" his mother is beginning, but Monkton stops her with a despairing gesture. "Don't," says he. "It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Let him believe there was electric light then if he chooses." "Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tommy, who is evidently full of the picture in question. "I have told you." "But the painter man could change it." "I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead." "Why didn't he do it before he died then? Why didn't somebody show him what to do?" "I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true to his ideal. It was a terrible time. They did really throw the Christians to the lions, you know." "Of course I know that," says Tommy with a superior air. "But why didn't they cast another one?" "Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. "That's why it's unfair!" says Tommy. "There is one poor lion there, and he hasn't got any Christian! Why didn't Mr. Dory give him one?" Tableau! "Barbara!" says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. "Is there any brandy in the house?" But Barbara is looking horrified. "It is shocking," she says. "Why should he take such a twisted view of it. He has always been a kind-hearted child; and now——" "Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions," says Mr. Monkton. "No one can deny that." "Oh! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy!" says his wife with tears in her eyes. "Believe me, Barbara," breaks in Joyce at this moment, "it is a mistake to be soft-hearted in this world." There is something bright but uncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. "One should be hard, if one means to live comfortably." "Will you take me soon again to see pictures?" asks Tommy, running to Joyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. "Do!" "But if you dislike them so much." "Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me?" "I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand," says Joyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. "Some morning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans." She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent. Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of reproach. |
|
