"Promised not to?" I asked with a queer feeling of distress, my eyes
glued to the papers.
"Promised always to show them to her first," she finished so low I
barely caught it.
I have no intuitive, immediate grasp of the value of paintings; results
come to me slowly, and though every one believes his own judgment to be
good, I dare not claim that mine is worth more than that of any other
layman, Frances had too often convicted me of gross ignorance and error.
I can only say that I examined these sketches with a feeling of
amazement that contained revulsion, if not actually horror and disgust.
They were outrageous. I felt hot for my sister, and it was a relief to
know she had moved across the room on some pretence or other, and did
not examine them with me. Her talent, of course, is mediocre, yet she
has her moments of inspiration--moments, that is to say, when a view of
Beauty not normally her own flames divinely through her. And these
interpretations struck me forcibly as being thus "inspired"--not her
own. They were uncommonly well done; they were also atrocious. The
meaning in them, however, was never more than hinted. There the unholy
skill and power came in: they suggested so abominably, leaving most to
the imagination.
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