That
sea, with the circular swirl, as each wave goes back into the belly of the
next, is well done; and those lumps of spume fluttering above
watermark--that was finely noted. Easy to write down in print, but
difficult as the fiend to paint. And the picture is full of wind too. Your
troubles are amply repaid and I congratulate you. A man who could paint
that will go as far as he likes."
The simple Brady forgot the powder in swallowing the jam. Barron had
touched those things in his work which were precious to him. His impulsive
nature took fire, and there was almost a quiver of emotion in his big voice
as he answered:
"Damn it, you're a brick! I'd sooner hear you praise those lumps of
sea-spume, racing over the sand there, than see my picture on the line."
But sentiment was strange to John Barron's impersonal nature, and he froze.
"Another fault exists which probably nobody will tell you but me. Your
seaweed's great, and you knew it by heart before you painted it--that I'll
swear to, but your sleeper there would never lie in the line of it as you
have him. Reflect: the sea must float the light weed after it could move
him no more. He should be stogged in the sand nearer the sea."
Brady, however, contested this criticism, and so the talk wore on until the
men separated. But the Irishman called on Barron after midday dinner and
together they strolled through Newlyn toward the neighboring village.
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