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"Do you like it?" He jerked his head at the painting.

"Very much." Patricia was doing her best. She had not had much experience in catching the true note of art criticism; but a rush of sympathy made her cordial to him, and anxious to say what she imagined he might find in some degree reassuring. Jack shrugged, and took a cigarette-case from his hip-pocket.

"I can't understand it," he said bluntly. "I see an eye, and a blob and a swish; and I can't make it into a picture." He was clearly puzzled and undecided. "I wish I could understand it," he went on. "Suppose I'm dull, or something."

"Perhaps it isn't everybody's idea of painting," agreed Patricia, guardedly. "I'm afraid I don't know much about it."

Jack lowered himself to the floor at her side.

"I wish I did," he said. "You know, I'm interested, and all that; and I want to like it, because it's Amy's. But I can't, and that's all about it. When a chap like Rosenberg comes along.... He's so damned fluent with it all.... You see, this is what worries me. He's pulling her leg. He thinks her work's awful."