“I have the permesso,” he said, leading at once to the door of the gallery.

They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks.  In the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large picture.  They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked if it was well done.

“What do you think yourself?” asked Mallard.

“It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it is neither one nor the other.”

He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized.

“I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust of myself.  I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterly worthless.”

“As likely as not—­no; at least, I think not.  But of course your eye is untrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon.  You can judge an original picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not be wholly misleading.  You can’t judge a copy technically, but I think you have more than average observation.  How would you like to spend your life like this copyist?”

“I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right.”

“You would?”

“I should be able to do something—­something definite and tolerably good.”

“Why, so you can already; one thing in particular.”

“What is that?”

“Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will nor can.  Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it.”

She examined the picture for a minute or two.  Then, without moving her eyes, she murmured

“I can say nothing that is worth saying.”

“Never mind.  Say what you think, or what you feel.”

“Why should you wish me to talk commonplace?”

“That is precisely what I don’t wish you to talk.  You know what is commonplace, and therefore you can avoid it.  Never mind his school or his date.  What did the man want to express here, and how far do you think he has succeeded?  That’s the main thing; I wish a few critics would understand it.”

Miriam obeyed him, and said what she had to say diffidently, but in clear terms.  Mallard was silent when she ceased, and she looked up at him.  He rewarded her with a smile, and one or two nods—­as his manner was.

“I have not made myself ridiculous?”

“I think not.”

They had walked on a little, when Mallard said to her unexpectedly: 

“Please to bear in mind that I make no claim to infallibility.  I am a painter of landscape; out of my own sphere, I become an amateur.  You are not hound to accept my judgment.”

“Of course not,” she replied simply.

“It occurred to me that I had been rather dictatorial.”

“So you have, Mr. Mallard,” she returned, looking at a picture.  “I am sorry.  It’s the failing of men who have often to be combative, and who live much in solitude.  I will try to use a less offensive tone.”